Fallen Angel
by juliasejanus
Summary: The CIA and MI6 covered up the use of a teenage agent after the suicide of General Sarov. Alex was unresponsive and placed in the Children's Hospital in Murmansk. Forged papers stated he was the thirteen year old Cuban born son of the dead traitor. The copilot of the private jet confirmed the beaten and restrained child had tried to alert the Authorities in Edinburgh.
1. Chapter 1

Boris Koriyenko was counting his blessings, he was alive and in no danger of criminal charges, despite being forced to step down rather than face a full investigation over his involvement in his late friend's insane plot for power. He had been interrogated for a week, with the cover story of a mild stroke. The security services had placed their own man in power and were busy clearing house, with arrests across Russia. The former president was grieving for the man, who had once shared his goal of wanting Russia to be strong and free. Democracy would be the price of Sarov's foolishness.

His dacha outside Moscow was luxurious, but the one time factory manager had not entered politics for his own wealth and position but to steer the former Communist Leviathan to become a strong, prosperous state on par with their neighbours in Europe. To prevent the diverse and vast nation from the folly of falling back into the worship of strong man over the needs of the many, be they the divinely anointed Tsar, Revolutionary Zealot or Tyrannical Despot.

For the first time in fifteen years, he had no agenda, no appointments, no speeches or publicity. His failures meant he had no allies to fall back on and friends were thin on the ground. He was bored, kept indoors by the inclement weather. He picked up the phone to enquire about the possibility of a recuperation on the Black Sea coast. Even in a clinic to keep up appearances, lose a few pounds and dry out. The vodka stocks were plentiful in every room, as if they wished him to drink himself to death. The staff here were all new. None of his old guard remained, his beloved cook had returned to Siberia and his secretary reassigned god knows where, possibly Siberia as well. His call was transferred five times until a weary Colonel in Directorate Two at Murmansk of all places answered politely, "thank you for calling Your Excellency, contacting you was on my to do list. The main office stated you are wanting to transfer to a health resort. I can expedite your request, but first I must ask you if you are aware of General Sarov's last will dated two days before his death and filed with the ambassador in Cuba. He leaves a large portfolio of investments and two foreign bank accounts to his bastard son and custody to you or your daughters. I thought I would ask you first, I can understand if you wish to decline. Young Aleksandr Alekseyevich has been mute since witnessing his father's suicide. The child psychologist states the boy shows signs of severe neglect and abuse, shying from basic comfort and not understanding their kindness, even suspicious of food and drink served. An orphanage would be the worst environment for such a delicate child and yet psychiatric hospital is also deemed too harsh. The child needs a home and stability to learn trust. You, as a retired man in precarious health, may find raising a psychologically damaged child too demanding. You did raise two teenage daughters by yourself after the death of your wife."

Boris could just disappear into obscurity as it was distasteful to use this child to salvage his reputation. The Colonel has been clever to apply the emotional leverage of guilt. Widowed at forty, he would never have coped alone without Lena's and Loyshka's support. Mira had been a darling baby brother to Tasha and Ola. The strange boy in Cuba was the image of Vladimir at thirteen, with the exception of the solemn brown eyes. He recalled his last meal with Boris, no longer his friend worthy of the loving nickname, the cold bastard had only called the boy, Alexander. No diminutives suggesting any fondness and always in English. The boy had an American Accent. The facts fell into place, rumours heard in Cuba, the death of an American couple diving. He surmised these unfortunates were the mother and stepfather of the child, murdered by that henchman. Boris had spent several months with the UN, just after Vladimir's death, while Lena had stayed in Moscow. "Aleksandr's mother died in Cuba days before I arrived there, he may have witnessed her murder. Check if he had an American passport and he have been known by another surname. Better if he has family in America. If not, I will take custody."

...

In two weeks, Alex had listened and observed enough to pick up enough Russian to understand the bare basics of what was being demanded. The children's ward was locked tight with guards on all exits. The hospital located on a military base, a thousand miles from Chelsea. He was a patient not a prisoner, dressed in weirdly old fashioned pjs, with no appetite to eat the bad food served up four time's a day . It was obvious they thought he was nuts, attributing his silence to be caused by shock. Understandable in the circumstances, arrested after Sarov's death. He immediately felt like vomiting, best not to recall that horror. In his regular session with the shrink this morning, the doctor had spoken in English for the first time and he had answered her questions, keeping to his legend as Alexander Thomas Gardiner, son of Belinda and Tom Gardiner of Beverley Hills. It had been the most stressful two weeks of his life, he expected to be dragged off by the security services and sent to a Gulag. After that confession, he had broken down and cried like a baby. Cried until he had vomited bile, before the doctor had sedated him.

Laying in the private room, on a hard bed, always chilled to the bone, starving, yet unable to eat, bursting into tears for stupid reasons, maybe he was nuts. The reality was the worst, he could not tell anyone here the truth. Blackmailed by a top secret subsidiary of MI6 that pretended to be an international bank and lent out to a similar bunch of American spooks working outside of the federal restrictions in the CIA, quite happy to break international law, to deny any involvement and disavow any captured operatives. At fourteen, Alex Rider was no more and he was on his own. He had little to no chance of repatriation as he had no documents and no actual legal guardians to declare him missing. His stomach continue to roll. He would die of an ulcer from worrying about things he could not change. Was there any positives to this situation? If he was sent back stateside, Byrne would gave him back to Blunt. No longer usable as free labour, he'd be in a crummy cheap as chips boarding school until he was eighteen if he was lucky. The likelihood of long term care if a high security psychiatric hospital either here or there was more likely. If they sent him to a orphanage, he'd run away. Would he be placed with a foster family? That would be the best case scenario. He could go back to be a normal school kid. He did not care if it was in Russia, Cuba, America or back in the UK at the moment. If he was offered a normal life he would not fuck it up. Just pretend the last four months had never happened and use every trick Ian taught him to be a close approximation of a normal child, though the elephant in the room was his obvious psychological issues.

The nurse entered and Alex was tempted to pretend to still be sedated, but they knew the doses precisely even considering he was small, underweight and not eating properly.

The woman knew better than to try and wake the boy in Room 5, who reacted badly to the lightest touch. "Come, Sasha. Please change as your new father is here. You are being discharged." She knew the child would be questioned by the police, but it was good he had a family now. Orphaned, in a strange country and with only official visitors in two weeks, no wonder the boy had lost kilos in weight and looked like a nervous wreck.

In the family room, the woman from Family Services was a familiar face as she had visited three times. As the American boy entered, she smiled falsely like she cared. Thankfully this emergency fostering had been handled in Moscow so she did not have the paperwork to deal with. The chain of custody was precarious at best, his mother and her husband murdered in Cuba, the biological father had shot himself and left custody to his best friend, who was politically untouchable and so well connected to cut through normal procedures, local red tape and the international legal issues.


	2. Chapter 2

Boris liked the small bistro near his favourite bathhouse, not in the fashionable areas in the city centre; where the rich and well connected lived, but in the southern industrial suburbs of Moscow, in the shadow of Domodedovo Airport where he had lived when promoted to manage the air freight division. He had invited his daughters to lunch to meet their new brother. He had gained power and then kept his freedom because he was an expert in negotiation and compromise. He knew when to keep secrets and knew enough about skeletons in closets to tow the line for the sake of mother Russia. As such, certain facts about young Alexander were being brushed over for the custody and adoption to be backdated two weeks, helped by three circuit court judges who signed documents without reading them. Sasha was no longer the son of a traitor, but the adopted son of the ex-premier.

The gossip mill would be vicious, but they would think Boris had hidden the boy in America to save his own reputation; then been blackmailed by Sarov and had to step down in disgrace. Alex would be branded as the bastard son of the President, after an affair with a foreigner. No longer Aleksandr Alekseyevich but Aleksandr Borisovich. The late general had been similar in looks to the younger manager and Communist party official for them to joke about being brothers after they became friends. There was a chance that most would name him as Vladimir Sarov's father as well. With both Lena, her husband and boy himself dead, the stain on their reputations did not matter.

It would have been his last term in office, he retired a few months early, having been elected three time's in a row. Popular enough with the electorate for the security services to want the attempted coup to stay secret. Better, he take the blame as a widower had been duped by a foreign seductress. Easier for him and the powers behind the facade of democracy. Taking on a boy after his mother's death would be seen as understandable for widower and experienced single father.

The retired president stood and kissed Ola, his youngest as she arrived first. She had a son of her own Sasha's age. His basic Russian would mean most of the discussion today would be beyond his understanding. His girls aware of these political games and willing to accept Mira's baby brother as their own and to relegate Uncle Alexei to the hell of being erased from their history. She broke the hug bad then stood back to look closely at her new brother. She smiled and said cheerily, "I thought Mira was too serious, Sasha is like a true black bear, gruff and serious too. Come hug your most beautiful big sister, before the bossy Tasha gets here."

Alex stood up and was enveloped in a bone crushing embrace by this stranger with dyed dark hair, pale grey eyes and extremely bright red lipstick, knowing he would be covered in it as Boris had been by her overtly affectionate greeting.

The three sat down and the owner brought out his special homemade vodka to celebrate the family reunion. She simile broadly and spoke in heavily accented English, "Welcome to this very unconventional family, little bear. First rule to learn is in public we are always a united front. In private, listen to the advice from me and Tasha. We have lived as the President's daughters for ten years. I was studying when he was elected to the Politburo, overnight I became an A* student. Then, Tasha and Mira always had my back, spoke the truth even when I did not want to hear it. Be careful what you say and who you trust, but family will always back you and keep your secrets. You can be who you want to be, don't worry. We don't need a perfect brother, just a happy and god willing a healthy one. Never play up to the image of the hero, Mira died trying to get his father's attention and approval. You can keep this old man out of trouble. He gambles at the baths, drinks too much and until recently used to work too hard. He needs you as well. Now we can gossip about Tasha as she's not here."

The toasts waited until he'd had a similar greeting from bossy and opinionated Tasha, who sat down to scold him, "you look like a starved street urchin, Sasha. I thought all American boys were fat, loud and had no manners. You are so quiet. You must get a good cook again, papa. Feed him up. He is so small, looks twelve not thirteen. Kolya is at least fifteen centimetres talker and seven kilos heavier. Let's drink our toasts then eat the best food in Moscow. Cabbage rolls are the best here. As is the summer borscht." Lifting up her glass of clear alcohol she made her toast, "To long summers and short winters. Drink it down in one, Sasha. No spilling, it's bad luck."

Alex did as instructed then had a coughing fit at the burn, only abated after sipping some cold water.

Boris downed his glass and then gave his son a friendly slap in his back. "Good boy, the first glass affects everyone the same. Ola and Tasha are old pros, their grandmother, god rest her soul, gave them winter strength vodka when they were seven and nine to keep them healthy and lucky, when my darling Nina got sick. She had the sight. Always said I'd be happy but it would pass too soon. Let's have coffee later and Ola will read all our grounds. Best be aware what's around the corner so we can prepare for the worst."

With Tasha picking out the best cabbage rolls for her new brother and Ola preparing Sasha's tea with an extra large spoon of jam, Boris could see the boy was accepted. They had all grieved the loss of Mira, then Lena. Alexei had not even attended his ex wife's funeral. The boy left to visit the urinal and Ola exclaimed "its like Vladimir has returned to us. He takes his tea the same and eats the stuffing first then the cabbage leaves. If he drinks his coffee without sugar, it's his soul reborn. He's our baby brother, I'm so happy I could cry. He's so serious, so sad. We are his first family papa, I can feel it. You always wanted a son, he will make you proud. This without the leaves. We must have another vodka back at your dacha. Get Misha to bottle up enough for our evening toast. The factory made stuff has no medicinal properties. Sasha needs good luck and good health."

...

It had been the best summer of his life as Alex got dressed for his first day at the International School, he was justifiably nervous. He had prepared well, having read each of his and Kolya's past textbooks cover to cover. His nephew was like another older brother, always fussing at him to eat more and be less studious. He rechecked his bag once again before joining his father for breakfast and asking the man busy reading the paper, "Papa, I need my lanyard. Have you seen it?"

"By the door. Are you sure you don't want to take a car?" Boris knew Sasha was shy to the extreme around strangers. To think in just over a month he was practically fluent and had picked up a slight Kazan accent from Boris and his daughters. His reading and writing needed work, but Sasha practiced everyday diligently.

"No, the bus is fine. I get to hear all the gossip before I get to school." The school had a uniform saving Alex from having to negotiate which chosen high street brands were in, as Kolya had instructed him not to dress designer like the sons of billionaires or the Mafia. The youngest member of the presidential security team was going to be tailing him discretely, but those guys liked him. They volunteered to spar after hearing he was a black belt in Karate. He had learned loads about Spetsnaz hand to hand combat and had been to the range here with them to practice shooting. He was a excellent shot and had improved his Russian leaps and bounds going on early morning runs with each member of the security detail in the Kremlin. His father had promised a winter holiday to go skiing, as Boris had been a champion biathlete in the army. It was going to be fine, he could pull this off. It was like his dreams had come true. He had family and it was great.


	3. Chapter 3

Yassen Gregorovich had never existed, so the CIA had no history to erase only a new background to create or in reality usurp. The assassin had betrayed Cray, a man who almost succeeded in gaining control of America's nuclear arsenal by taking control of Airforce One. The rehabilitation of a cold killer was not on the cards, but the man would be protected from his former employers. The team handling his defection took detailed notes during his debrief: on Malagosto, SCORPIA, it's operatives, several directors and operations. The Russian was happy to be fully forthcoming on most questions and was only silent regarding details of Dr Three and the Yakuza, just shrugging when asked questions about them. The higher ups were trying to decide wether to pay the man to go back undercover, but with his detailed intel they could place their own man within the School for Assassins. They had the perfect operative, recently promoted from a wet work team in South America.

The killer accepted the cigarette from his minder. Exhaling the bland smoke through his nose wanting the harsher cigarettes he had smoked as a teenager to appear like an adult. The oddity of defiance by smoking making him feel homesick for the first time in years, yet there was nothing to return there for. Estrov had been wiped from history. No graves to tend, no memorials for the hundreds dead there. Nothing to visit, his family and friends never existed to die from the equally denied lethal anthrax outbreak. Sharkovsky was dead by the slave's hand, the only tangible reason to ever return to Russia. He had not mourned the death of Hunter, whose demise was expected as a man who played to all sides against each other. He did mourn John's son, who disappeared in June after the Triads attempted to drown him. Wherever MI6 had sent him after that, he had not returned. His home in Chelsea sold. His own investigators had found out about the Grief's plot and a mission in Iraq as well as two operations in the UK. Four more likely five back to back naked undercover jobs in as many months would have broken an adult operative never mind a child. It painted the picture that MI6 had wanted to kill off the child that knew too much, but the boy kept surviving. At that thought he wondered if his luck had run out.

In his grief, he had secured his own retirement from the never ending cycle of death. Obscurity as an American, where no one would think him strange as cold blooded killers were idolised in the cinema and literature. He had asked for nothing except safety. He had money secure in banks beyond the reach of his previous employers and unknown to those here. His dark mood only lifted over the American cover up which had staged Cray's death as a bizarre autoerotic asphyxiation hanging accident and had planted child pornography at the scene. The pop star's reputation was in tatters. A western version of nonperson. The irony had made Yassen smile.

...

Being a parent was exhausting. The former president realised the hated nickname of old man was in fact the truth, as he relied on the security teams to go to running and teach self defence every day, then play football and swimming sessions several times a week with the always active teenager. Boris consulted his doctor and cut down on the vodka, went walking to stay active, ate regularly and a balanced diet to discourage Sasha's habit of skipping meals. He slept better, even with Sasha's nightmares. He was worried about the boy's habit of editing his life, to start a story or anecdote then suddenly shut up, too frightened to continue. One night after screaming awake the teenager had asked if it were possible to forget everything from before, to make the past disappear.

The school had reported their new pupil was very shy and withdrawn, especially with the other children, preferring to speak in Russian and getting teased for being a peasant, when English was his native tongue. He was trying so hard, maybe too hard to be perfect, to erase his past and be Russian. The principal's letter had concluded with a recommendation for sessions with a psychologist. Ola would know what to do.

...

Ingrained hyper awareness meant Alex dodged the football boot thrown at his head from behind after sports yesterday. The hazing was getting old. He had developed a stutter speaking English in his effort not to appear too fluent, by trying not to stand out, he was giving the impression of being a dork. A voice sounding like Ian in his head told him to get over himself and just excel at everything. His grades were fine, As and Bs across the board, which was great after they had slid at Brookland to Ds and Es the few days he had attended school last term, but he was repeating Year 9 after his birthdate had for some reason been adjusted to be the 13th June 1988 not February 1987. If only he had actually cut those fifteen months from his actual life to be an innocent and ignorant thirteen year old again.

Funny that no one had picked up that neither his Spanish nor his Russian were affected by the stutter. He was sick of pretending as keeping track of omissions and lies was becoming too much to keep in track. Now he was sat in the nurses office after the class monitor caught him puking up his lunch. The nurse gave him a note from the office for his father, after recommending he went home early. It was bizarre that His home was a palatial three bedroomed apartment in the Kremlin. Here, they expected pupils to travel home without an escort, even when too ill to attend lessons. He had his bus pass, it would be cool. Wednesday afternoons meant Boris was at the banya loosing a wallet full of roubles betting on the hockey or the football.

...

The blond boy dressed in pale blue shirt, grey shirts and blue blazer put on his security lanyard for the gate back into the most secure compound in the capital, as he walked to the bus stop from the deserted the school entrance. He paid the traffic no mind as he walked to the main intersection and down the road to the trolley bus stop. No one was waiting. Ten minutes until the next scheduled service for the hour's ride into the city centre. He pulled out his science text, wanting to boost that B to an A.

For a week the driver of the hire car watched the boy arrive and leave school, this was the first time Kiriyenko's bastard was alone, with no security. His two brothers had died in Murmansk following their former general. From that whole blood bath, that American spawned traitor had escaped to become a prince.

The engine noise flared to his left alerted the child sat in the bus stop, as the black Mercedes swerved from the line of traffic straight for him. Alex had just enough time to drop his book, abandoning his bag and jump to grab the overhanging metal pole of the information board and swing to safety. The sound of the car crushing the shelter was horrifying. Dumbly, Alex gazed into broken tinted windshield and noticed the unconscious driver pinned by the wreckage looked more Chinese than Russian. Were the triads here to kill him again? Panicking, dazed and hyperventilating the teenager turned to run home.

The runner slowed as he reached the security checkpoint in the side entrance into the accommodation area of the a Kremlin. Even exhausted after running 15 kilometres, he checked for threats. His legs were like jelly, his feet bloody and sore, his school shoes ruined. He had dropped his blazer after getting too hot and tying it loosely around his waist. There were extra guards, he could not remember any alerts about a planned security exercise today. Luckily he had put on his lanyard before loosing his bag. The two soldiers looked at his security pass before Oleg came running out of the side office to grab Sasha and carry him into his office, shouting for medical assistance. The boy was sat in the chair nearest the heater, which was switched on despite it being a warm and fine September afternoon. Hot tea laced with plum jam was given to the exhausted child, as the master sergeant pulled out a first aid kit and another guard arrived with a bowl of warm soapy water and clean towels. Alex blurted out in fast fluent Russian as he was wrapped in a blanket, "I lost my blazer and my bag. I had a letter for papa from school. I was sick at lunch. Please don't send me back... please I can't go back." The tears from the stress of everything, suppressed since living here, but just under the surface erupted and the boy vomited tea over himself and he was crushed under the weight of claustrophobia as there was too many people in the room, he was too warm and he needed to be in his room upstairs alone, when he actually wanted Jack and his room in Chelsea. A past he could not return to, no matter how many times he wished it before he went to sleep. Panic rose, as his heart rate jumped dangerously high and as his breathing shallowed to brief gasps and oxygen levels plummeted. As the paramedics arrived, their patient was unconscious.


	4. Chapter 4

The security guard spoke softly to his Excellency the former President of the Russian Federation. "The driver was related to two of Sarov's rabidly loyal paratroopers. The man has confessed to attempted murder and will plead guilty at his formal arraignment today. There are large crowds at the courthouse, many are calling for the return of the death penalty for this treason. We wish to keep the charges to just the car incident and the prisoner will be held incommunicado in a psychiatric unit, he is obviously insane."

The white haired politician wanted to stay here after such a cathartic night, as Sasha had confessed the reality of his past. His son had finally trusted him enough to repudiate Sarov as a father and begged him to let him stay, as if he would ever return any child to such a horrifically abusive situation Alex Rider had been forced to endure in London and then Cuba. Thinking all the possible ramifications of the truth versus their reality, the family already knew, but even full public disclosure would not change anything. In their hearts he was family, the essence of Vladimir returned as Ola had phrased it. They would protect this child to their dying breaths. "Call a press conference. I will get Sasha to attend. Duty is something he needs to man up to. We have to publicly show he is injured but not seriously, physically, but be open about the depth of shock and anguish this has caused us."

Alex changed out of hospital issue clothes into his favourite cosmonaut pyjamas, hand me downs from Nikolai, as were most of his clothes. The bundles of castoffs had arrived when he moved in with Boris. He even had shoes, so only his uniform had been new. He cracked a colossal yawn and thought back to last night. The ploy for disclosure to the nation's and world's press was to appear younger, more vulnerable, to manipulate maximum sympathy.

In the early hours, Sasha Kiriyenko had woken from a nightmare, he had pulled back the bedclothes to see his heavily bandaged feet, which throbbed in pain Boris was down the ward talking to the nurses and with the two federal security officers in plain clothes, but the youthful observer knew the subtle signs of fear from other people's body language when such ogres were in the room. A necessary evil was how Boris described the state security apparatus. Blunt, Jones, Crawley, Byrne and his own uncle were the same, a necessary evil needed to fight fire with fire. The balance was to keep such forces constrained by free speech, law and democratic government as in an autocracy innocents always suffered when such swords were given free reign. Alex wanted with his whole being to take a killer's advice and leave that world and never return, but he could not do so alone. He was going to take a leap of faith and trust Boris with the truth.

In the car, with the driver separated behind a glass divide for privacy, Boris now returned to the confessions of the night before. The waiting game over for the child blackmailed into spying by his previous guardian to confess the truth and unburden his secrets. "So, I will always call you Sasha, all previous names are for the ghosts of the past. Legally and in my heart you are my son, my daughter's brother and baby brother rather than uncle to Kolya as well. The press are aware of you now. You will be called foul names. The man that tried to kill you yesterday called you my pampered bastard. Pampered, what a fallacy, these people cannot see with their own eyes and only believe convenient lies. You have never known love, that we are committed to rectify that. This is the collective we, from family and state. The illegal American passport and fake parents separate you from those in London, who cannot get past the very legal will of General Sarov leaving custody of you to me, nor the very legal adoption making you my son. Blood does not make family. My father was never a parent, yet I basked in my mother's unconditional love and care and learned all important lessons from her. Your uncle was never a parent just another type of abusive controller, planning to force you to be an operative of the secret state. You want to be a normal boy, yet you have been forced to survive the worst the adult world could inflict on you. It has made you very Russian. No lies, no masks and no pretence is needed from now on. You are you. Good and bad. Your skills need not be weapons for others to exploit, just tools for your survival, like yesterday. No ordinary child would have reacted like you and you would have been taken from me. God bless your reflexes and instincts. Now we balance myth and truth to shape our future. Here we show the cunning of foxes to smite our enemies. No black and white, the world is a wonder of many hues, a balancing act where you should always honour love, family, friends, protecting those weaker than yourself and ideal of law. Miss out any one of the these and you are a tyrant, a psychopath, real evil.'

The image of the strong factory worker's son, who had through his own resourcefulness risen from leader of the local young communists, to tractor factory manager in Kazan to control airfreight in the state airline, to Mayor of Moscow, Politburo member then to President, was in play. He may be in his late sixties, but that strength in body and mind, was there to lift Sasha from the car and carry him to the side entrance of their home. They were not driving into the car park unseen to hide in shame and lick wounds in private. This was to honour Oleg, who would hold the injured child while the retired politician gave a speech of gratitude for support and confirm the rumours of his recent acceptance of his son. The crowd had become silent and it parted to allow the official car, bearing the Russian flags, to park. Three security guards made a corridor and the driver opened the rear door. The man given the nickname the Kazan bear, for his political tenacity in confronting corruption and state failures, reached in and lifted out a skinny, short blond boy dressed in worn, slightly too short night clothes exposed a bandaged hand and feet for all to see. The pyjamas looked well loved and were worn with signs of repair on the elbows, where similar cloth had carefully patched holes. Oleg stepped forward to take Sasha as had been previously arranged, to allow the politician to give the brief message of gratitude.

"Thank you friends for your concern. You can see after his ordeal yesterday, my son is fine. Only in hospital overnight for shock. He will be back at school within a week or so, as soon as his feet heel." There were two photographers taking pictures and a freelance news cameraman recording this unexpected and very scandalous confession from the former president of a child bore from a past affair. A old woman in the crowd shouted out, "God bless you Boris. Bless you, for taking in the motherless bastard."

Now came the prepared speech "Sasha's parents died in July, murdered. A true Russian always accepts his responsibilities, as I have forgone power and office to accept my son into my home and into my heart. This is proof of past weakness, but I am human with faults and needs. I have been a widower a long time. Until this summer I had no knowledge of Sasha's existence, if I had been given the opportunity I would have been a real parent from the outset. For an opponent of democracy to try and murder my son, I have no words, I only beseech you all to respect the rule of law and work to uphold the rights and privileges of all Russian citizens to a lawful trial and the judges impartiality in deciding a just sentence, now a young man needs his rest as do I. It has been a long night. Thank you again, please go home and pray for all you loved ones safety and well being."

...

Joe Byrne caught the CNN broadcast in his office in the basement at Langley and dropped his cup of coffee when he recognised the secret illegitimate 'son' of Boris Kiriyenko. "Well I'll be damned" was exclaimed as he moped up the scalding liquid from his trousers and then belly laughed to the surprise of his secretary who was picking up china shards on the linoleum. The file on the Gardiner's and Sarov had been shredded last month. The operation wiped from the operations records of the Covert Operations Division and all agents involved burned, including a fourteen year old on loan from MI6. "Look at that wily old fox, smiling like a cat that ate all the cream."

The secretary shuddered, "surprised the old fart's genes could produce an angel like that. Here's the full press release from the Kremlin, states the kid was born in Los Angeles in 1988 and then adopted. Old Boris was darling of the early democratic movement then. The kid isn't the result of one of our honey traps, is he?"

Joe continued to laugh "no. Definitely not. On shit, I might be having an aneurysm this is so hilariously ironic." So, Sarov had not killed the kid, and the victim of the attempted coup had not handed to kid back to Blunt, but adopted him. The Russian's held the high moral ground and were advertising it to all in the business, stating bold as brass that using a kid in the ultimate high stakes game of mutually assured mass destruction was going too far. God he wished he was in London to be a fly on the wall as Blunt had been outplayed by a man perceived by most as a blundering fool.


	5. Chapter 5

The safe house in Seattle was a pleasant change from the endless questions in London, then Langley. His surrender to the secret service agents had purposefully snubbed the British. The Russian watched the news for the first time in weeks and his faith in the luck of Hunter's son was restored. The child spy had escaped his masters and been adopted by the former Russian president no less. Moscow was still a dangerous place, as the opponents of democracy had tried to kill this child who was not a child. At fourteen, Yasha Gregorovich had been mercilessly hunted down by the state after his life had been erased from existence. He knew the game being played in Moscow was to embarrass Blunt, with Alex's well being secondary to international politics. Yet, he was back as a school boy out of the game, skilled enough to escape, evade and survive.

Cossack was officially dead, having being silent too long and SCORPIA did not waste resources to follow up on lost operatives. Failures on current and future operations would lead to the blame being placed on moles, leaks or internal failings not on a contract killer who had fallen foul of Cray's psychotic tendencies. That fool had tried to shoot him, but had not expected body armour. He had played dead long enough to overpower the megalomaniac and alert the Americans. He too was lucky, but when your employers think you're expendable it's time to play dead. He plans for revenge would be in the hands of the CIA and with the death of Cray they would be gunning for SCORPIA.

...

Byrne had started a new file under the code name Fallen Angel on the main frame at Langley. Covert Operations used a dinosaur stand alone computer for its work. Impossible to hack, state of the art cryptology and guaranteed to wipe everything clean in the event of an unauthorised user attempting to access. Byrne knew the kid was a genuine person of interest, but only he was aware of his true background and that information was his and his alone at the moment. He had no reason to betray Alex's precarious position in Moscow. The legend used for Alex Gardiner would show an illegal adoption based on a borrowed birth record of an abandoned baby, as Californian law accepted the rights of the child without a birth certificate in such cases. The adoptive parents were fiction, yet the child in question was living in Russia and accepted there as the progeny of Boris Kiriyenko. It was a masterful piece of misinformation. The 'impromptu' speech had not used the word affair, pregnancy, nor alluded to the supposed sexual partner, just parents as in plural and with no actual corpses in Cuba, just shark food, and with Sarov dead it was a clear case of the Russian state protecting a child. End of story, no case to answer, as both MI6 and the CIA had in built plausible deniability about black ops and Miss Jack Starbright had no proof of anything as she was an illegal resident who overstayed a student visa. The house she had shared with Ian, not Alex Rider, was sold and all incriminating personal effects probably already destroyed after her arrest and deportation. If the kid showed up with his US passport, the embassy would recognise it as genuine and Byrne would whistle Dixie and plead the fifth rather than incriminate himself and end up in federal prison. That's what the CIA paid him for. He had been in Miami assisting the DEA's take down of a cocaine smuggling ring, not breaking international law by spying on a certain Russian General smuggling fissile material into Cuba. All things the Russians had covered up.

...

Tulip Jones placed the half dead sprig of flowers bought in the local garage on the grave of Ian Rider. Even stood in Brompton Road cemetery, the woman's habit of compulsively eating mints had her unwrapping the cellophane of a Fox's Glacier mint purchased with the flowers. She looked down at the plain headstone stating just Ian Rider 1965-2001. Like confessing her sins to a priest she whispered to the grave of a dead colleague. "We lost Alex. Out played by the Russians. There was always a chance child services would intervene, I honestly expected the school to step in, but Moscow, not in my lifetime. I'd like to be able to offer reassurances, but he looked awful. Pale, far too skinny, terribly stressed. We can't extract him. Our hands are tied. We think the CIA or possibly SCORPIA tried to assassinate him. It's a waiting game. It'll be years before he can escape and well, years for them to condition him. I tried to warn you about Blunt, but no, you went ahead with your crazy training plan. It's failed abysmally. Is it warm down there, but the road to hell is paved with good intentions and yours were never good. I'm here confessing my complicity to you rather than John because I expect I'll see him in hell when I pass. Damn you Ian, Alex should have grown up with a proper family. Damn you for all eternity to the deepest pits of hell. You and Blunt."

...

Ola had tucked her brother and her son in, as Kolya was snoring already totally out of it after drinking three glasses of vodka with lunch. Alex could get the fact no one had slept much last night. The buffet here had been extensive, with food and snacks delivered from the wives of most of the government department heads, security officers and even the curators here. Alex had played safe with cool summer borscht and the strange fruit jelly concoction brought by Tasha. He had dutifully drunk coffee, just for Ola to read the grounds and declare no more excitement until midwinter. He hope she was alluding to skiing, but who knew with his track record.

"Do you need more medicine, Sasha?" queried the woman worried that he was not exhausted enough to to sleep. He was, just had too much to think over, so he shook his head and placated her by closing his eyes, expecting to be left alone, but she settled on a chair and pulled out a book and began reading. "It was the best of times...". The youngest daughter of the President had a love of English Literature, one she was sure this English boy was bound to share. By the end of the first page, Alex was asleep after reflecting Ian had never read to him, nanny's and the occasional babysitter, but never Ian.

...

Boris was picking up the paper strewn on the floor in disgust at breakfast. From the bedroom, Alex could hear he was swearing under his breath about stupid foreigners visiting and not understanding that the etiquette of sick children was to not visit and let them rest. The American Ambassador's wife had invited herself over for a visit. The apartment quiet today after Ola went back to work and her husband. Kolya grumbling over his kasha about having to return to school after the bonus day off.

The prim and proper middle aged Washington wife had arrived with two secret service agents in tow, both of whom stood in the exterior hall trying to out stare the Russian security detail doing the same. Alex was laid on the sofa and observed a master at dead pan humour at work. The woman's face was a picture as Boris had shamelessly and lewdly flirted with her. She was watched as Alex stirred jam into his tea, then ate several slices of thin black bread smeared with salted butter, like he was Russian born and bred.

She was aware of the old man dominating the conversation to deflect interest in the child, who was perfectly quiet and dutifully ate while following Boris' lead. She was brittle and polite, as she waited until Boris had left to empty his bladder after downing five rounds of tea and gone to get a gift sorted for their visitor.

"Really, how are you Alexander? It can as a shock to us all that his Excellency's son was American born."

Alex put down his glass of tea and pulled out an American Passport from under his blanket. He passed it to the woman and then questioned the first American official he'd seen since Joe Byrne introduced him to his 'parents'. "After I was brought here by Sarov he died. Boris got his people to contact the embassy to enquire about my situation. He expected you guys to come and rescue one of their own rather than leave him to be placed under the guardianship of a stranger." With that titbit he had openly shocked a woman who spent her life shaking sweaty hands, smiling and laughing at unfunny jokes. She was obviously quite sheltered to be visibly upset over a minor administration error. Alex was half tempted to confess to her the whole sorry tale concerning child trafficking across borders by CIA covert ops and then a crazy Russian general with the murder of Belinda and Tom, a dirty nuclear bomb, his own last minute bravery at expecting death over the irradiating of Western Europe.

"Is that true, Alexander?"

"Yep." He left it at that rather than out both Joe Byrne at Langley and the real chess master of the whole mess, Alan Blunt at the Royal and General Bank, AKA MI6 Special Operations, both who would deny everything. He motioned at the blue document. " Keep it. It's cool, I have a dad and a home. I get to go to school, barring incidents with nationalist nutters, that is. Everything is a million times better than before. Could you do me one favour, it's just check up on my housekeeper. She brought me up. Jack Starbright was used as leverage to blackmail me into compliance. Just let me know she's fine, hopefully back home with her family in Baltimore. Other than that, it's a clean slate, no hard feelings." With a bright smile, Alex offered their guest first choice of cake before making a joke, "bet your gift will be a bottle of vodka. He only drinks Ola's special medicinal home brew now and that's rationed to when she's drinking it as well. It's completely lethal stuff. Yes, I get to down it too. It's a totally crazy cool. Come home from hospital and get smashed."


	6. Chapter 6

Byrne got the copy of the contract report compiled by the Station Chief in Moscow as soon as it was filed on the system. Mrs Davina Cooper-Brown, the wife of the Ambassador had been playing a house visit to a poor sick boy and had returned to the embassy to stir up a hornet's nest. In late July, the secretary in the Family Affairs department at that very embassy had received a request from Murmansk about an orphaned American thirteen year old. That enquiry had been answered with a curt statement that no American Child was missing with that name. In her hand, she had the genuine passport, of one Alexander Thomas Gardiner, who had now handed back his only proof of citizenship back with his statement that he had a dad and thanks but no thanks. He was fine as they could not be be bothered to ring Cuba to find out about his murdered parents, so be it. Alex had pitched a direct question, about Jack Starbright breaking cover, which meant the Russians knew and he was letting them know the Russians knew everything. Poor kid gave the impression he was using all his training to adapt and appear fully Russian, to be the son a wily political snake like Boris Kiriyenko would accept. The old bastard was at least attempting to protect a pawn in the dirty arena of international espionage. He got up and went to drive to Baltimore to brief Ms. Starbright before she got herself her own personal body bag for squealing Blunt's dirty laundry to all and sundry.

...

...

Alan Blunt was well aware one more error of judgment and he'd be forced to retire, the threat not actually aired after his private dressing down from M, acting on the orders of Downing Street and the Queen's Equerry, but he was no fool. Lending a child to the Americans was the no-no, everything that went wrong after that was on their consciences, and Byrne was not the type to be troubled by hiding problems in shallow graves. The man had silenced Jack Starbright far more effectively than their blood money had.

The files regarding Alex Rider were placed in a box of Ian Rider's personal effects and would be retrieved if he came back in from the cold. At fourteen, he had been manipulated very effectively into that adoption. Would he become the shining star of their not his black ops in the future, quite possibly. His Russian counterparts were continuing to train young Alex subtly in shooting and political games.

More relevant was the fact he had suffered two unexpected transfers, losing both Jones and Smithers to Albert Embankment. The temporary replacement deputy was one of M's toadies here to keep him in in line. Even if he kept the status quo, but he would never sit in M's chair now nor gain the coveted knighthood on retirement. He could almost smile with the realisation as neither carrot worked for him, he liked working in black ops and every time it was the choice of between lives of his agents or the lives of the many. That's what they signed up for whether willingly or because they feared his threats more.

...

Hitching a ride on a troop transport to the Sand box, Byrne knew this promotion was a very sideways one, to get him far away from Langley and under deep cover in case the State Department put two and two together and started asking questions. Unlikely as the fubar was being centred on the US Embassy Family Liaison Officer in Moscow. Marcella Dominguez had technically done nothing wrong, but had been sent back stateside for causing an international incident.

The Cubans had returned personal effects of two missing tourists and paperwork concerning Sarov's emergency guardianship of his 'biological' son Alexander Thomas Gardiner, and their confirmation of the son being the sole beneficiary of his last will. No birth certificate, no adoption paperwork, no Cuban residency, though the Russian Embassy in Havana had produced emergency travel documents for Aleksandr Sarov, age 13. Russian identity papers had been produced after Kiriyenko had been granted the adoption. No DNA tests, no mention anywhere of a mother, but then again no blowback to Langley. The kids passport had been issued in California in June, though his file on the computer system was corrupted as were the files there for everyone named Gardiner. The specific virus had targeted that network right after the mission went south in Cuba and used Russian style virus programming. Blame would be pointed at Sarov by the FSB, when questioned by the US Ambassador.

Neat and tidy cover up on par with all Byrne's work. He did have morals and would keep an ear and eye on the kid, who may yet requested repatriation or if the deal with the Russians soured. Not through any official channels, because Alex was not officially a spy, just a kid abducted and trafficked across borders by Sarov. He would read the FBI's file in due course once they got involved. The trail of clues was unlikely to pin this on Troy or Turner, both of whom never officially worked for Byrne, but were exCIA.

...

The paparazzi were following as Alex cycled to school. The police then cut in front of the car, playing hard ball, but that would soon stop. The bike had been a present from the US Ambassador's wife, who had signed the card simply Davina like they were besties, after meeting once. Commuting by bike was a seasonal luxury as by late October the plummeting temperatures would force him back on the bus, but it was good to be going to school alone, under his own power and free of security. The guys kind of trusted him, and he had gotten a lot of grief for running home and not back to school. They had then reassured him school was completely vetted and safe.

He picked up speed enjoying the first morning out of the apartment after two weeks on bed rest enforced by mummy bear Boris. School would be different. He gelt so much better knowing Boris knew and had his back, also about telling the yanks, very politely, to piss off. He had one short message from the embassy stating Jack was fine in Baltimore. He had not asked for dialogue and they understood his need to establish himself here with his new family. Not helped by the fact the Russian press were aware the embassy had somehow misplaced his guardianship file in July because of an administration error. He had laughed so much when Boris had read that editorial aloud. Better than the gutter press vilifying the seductress who had duped poor gullible Boris, then abandoned her offspring stateside. It was all like a soap opera rewrite of very few facts.

Alex was used to siting on his own at break and lunch and class partners ignoring him. First period was English. The teacher began the lesson asking for a volunteer to read a passage from Shakespeare. He stood and coughed slightly to clear his throat causing half the class to snigger, then began to read the most famous speech from Henry V, with clear diction and dramatic inflection, he rose to the occasion as he ended with the rousing call "that fought with us upon St Crispin's Day."

Ms Grishkova clapped, " wonderful, what a lovely clear accent. I only meant you to read a couple of lines, but that was like we had Mr Branagh here. That is up next, the speech in that movie. Its going to be a bit flat after our wonderful live performance. Sasha you just got yourself an A for this part of the course. I could see you knew the lines as you barely looked at the book."

Alex sat in his seat, not correcting her that he only needed a glance to memorise a page of text. "I prefer Falstaff's speech in Henry IV Part I. Comedy is better than the glorifying of war."

At the back of the room Zac Schaefer mock whispered up, "what a surprise another A for the president's bastard."

"I would not scoff Zac. Tell me your favourite speech? You're demonstrating your command of verse and pacing next lesson. This term is all about the Bard and each of you need to pick a monologue. Any of you know how many plays we have to chose from?"

Of all in the class, Sasha Kiriyenko alone put up his hand, so he answered, only the second time he'd spoken up in class since he started here. "Thirty eight, 10 histories, 18 comedies and 10 tragedies." He really hoped to be jumped up a year by Christmas, he was sick the petty taunts. He was here to learn, not be popular. He doubted he had anything in common with anyone in the whole school.

Alex sat back and watched the video as it played, but his mind was drawn back intohis own four months of unwanted adventures earlier in the year. No one in Chelsea had questioned there was anything wrong with missing weeks of school, not just once, but most of the time. The fact his behaviour had changed, did they put it down to grief or did they listen to the whispers in school yard, accepting he'd got into drugs.

The opposite here, when Boris had adopted him, knowing he was lying about being American, being Sarov's son and had been forced to act as cover for two CIA agents in Cuba. No one here questioned when he said jam not jelly. Today, his false american accent forgotten for more English tones. Did anyone notice or care? Was it time to call bullshit on all Ian's careful plans for fitting in and not getting noticed, that the devil was in the details. Here, the enemy saw him as a child, because he was a child. Damn Ian, Blunt, Jones, Crawley and Byrne to hell. He knew he's have to accept Boris' and the security officer's advice and actually talk to the psychologist about everything, not try and control his problems on just here and now. He half recalled a piece of poetry, one he would look up in the school library at break. He smiled thinking of the line 'your parents fuck you up', though it was adults in general. JM Barrie had it right, better be a lost boy.

There were many similarities to Boris Kiriyenko and Alan Blunt, Alex was alturistic enough to know he was being used here, but the carrot they offered was what he truly wanted. He was in school, a dysfunctional pupil with problems fitting in and by accident rather than design, Jack was safe back home. She was an adult, she should have handled the whole blackmail situation better anyway. She cared, but not enough to make a difference. Boris had already promised to use his entire arsenal of dirty secrets gathered over a lifetime to protect his new son. That was the different between a real parent and a housekeeper. Alex smiled to himself at the warm feeling in his heart, this was home, Boris was his papa. He had breathing room to heal, still train because he had to keep his eyes open because the wolves were at the door.


	7. Chapter 7

Boris was livid, ordered to a meeting at the school he paid for. If his son had broken rules, either beat him or make him work off his punishment, What did a parent have to add? He was not in charge at school, teachers had full authority. He could not see Sasha bullying anyone and he could talk his way out of most arguments, he had Tasha and Ola wrapped around his fingers by his eloquence. The old man had not hurried, calling a cab, as this was not an emergency, to use a Presidential Car. Worst was the smirk on Victor's face. His new head of security was best friends with the young ex-spy and had taken on keeping Sasha fit and healthy, both physically and mentally. Viktor broke the silence by talking to the taxi driver, who was obviously in state security employ. "Wait for us at the school, Sasha has an appointment with the psychologist at 4:30." The man then turned to the retired president "20 roubles states the bastards calling him peasant didn't like it when he started answering back. He has your humour and as sharp a tongue."

"They call my cultured son, peasant? I might resort to fighting myself. He has discussions over Dickens and Shakespeare with Ola and she teaches at Moscow University. If he foregoes your dirty business, he may be a fine scholar. We discuss politics and history at our meals, he is no idiot. Did you know he did not speak a word of Russian until this summer? Yet the teacher's here think it's his first language. "

Viktor smirk widened, "he does have a fine vocabulary in curses and sexual innuendo, I wonder from who he picked up such bawdiness?"

...

Alex was sat with the Phys Ed teacher in his small office beside the changing rooms. The man had a smug look on his face that reminded the ex spy of Herod Sayle. This was not the welcome onto the under 15 soccer team meeting the Year 9 pupil expected. More of spider and fly confrontation and Alex was done playing the role of fly. "So is this about soccer? I have been scouted for an apprenticeship in the past, decent premiership team. Sucks to have no background records available, but that's the deal, when people deny you exist."

"No, Sasha, it's about the rumours. You have been ostracised by your peers since starting here, some of the harsher taunts are about being effeminate? I just want to reassure you that liking boys is perfectly OK. I fully understand." The man's hand then touched the thirteen year old's knee and caressed up the thigh until just under his shorts. "You can always count on my support and backing, others such as your father may view your leanings towards other boys as a perversion. Some in Russia, go as far as violent aversion therapy to discourage such feelings. Entirely natural feelings as love is never wrong." The man licked his lips and his fingers soothed the tense thigh muscle of his prey's leg.

Sat still, rigidly upright in the chair. The room hot and stuffy all of a sudden. Rather than give in to anxiety, cool logic prevailed over the less than subtle threats mixed in with the shoddy attempt at empathy. Alex knew in five, no four moves he could have this guy out cold, or even brain dead and unlikely ever to wake up to molest children in his control again. Act too soon, he'd be expelled for assault or even locked away for murder. Cry wolf too soon and he knew the school would always believe the teacher. He had to get the pervert caught in a position where no one would doubt his intentions. "You don't know papa. He has forgiven worse, considering my checkered past." With a brilliant smile, channeling his nemesis Julius Grief, the young man reciprocated the same tender touch on the teacher's thigh. With his other hand, he loosened his tie and unbuttoned the top button of his shirt. The game of chicken was on, encouraging the bastard to play along, he was not going to flinch until they were in a very uncompromising position. "I prefer to be relaxed. Do you have any vodka?"

...

The school nurse was sat with his snoring son, who was wrapped in a school blanket. The woman was visibly upset and it was obvious she had been crying. There were four militia guards milling around and a senior investigator who looked ill when he spotted the former President and his Presidential Security Guard, he stood to attention and gave a sharp nod, "Your Excellency, Colonel. Please let us go into the secretary's office, as the felon is secured in the headmaster's office, as the school insist we wait until all the pupils have left before we transfer him to headquarter's, unless you think this is a matter for the Federal State Security, considering the high profile victim."

Boris then strode forward and gently pulled at the blanket, his son was nearly naked, only wearing his vest and pants. Had his clothes been taken as evidence? "Who touched my son and why is he alseep? Has he been drugged? If so, why is he here and not in hospital?"

The criminal investigator looked green, like he wanted State Security to take over this hot potato. "The nurse has stated no physical assault has taken place. Just inappropriate behaviour; your son intoxicated enough to be completely pliable, we assume stripped of his clothes and the teacher had taken photos and was found partially undressed, trousers down and fully exposed. Aleksandr has briefly spoken of the ordeal like it was a game, he called it playing doctor." The man coughed, mopped the sweat from his brow, unnerved by His Excellency's steely gaze and grim silence, then continued. "The timely interruption by the other sports teacher, Ms. Bunting, interrupted the attempted sexual assault. After we took our initial statement, your son became upset and the nurse gave Aleksandr a mild sedative. Hence him sleeping now."

The old man went to pick up his son from the fussing woman. What signs of turmoil had he missed? The boy loved learning, but had been unhappy at school, not trusting the teachers here when nearly killed a block away. Yet, he had only spoken to him of the problems making friends. Had the isolation led to this beast to target a lonely, bright child, as the boy's father he was well aware Sasha was desperate for affection and approval. Today, he had assumed Alexander had been impulsive, had injured others to defended himself or been rude. Normal problems of a mature teenager adjusting to a new home in a new country. The school picked for its similar syllabus to school in London rather than the American International School. Boris would never have predicted this, where his innocent son had been forced to comply, been touched and defiled. "Have the other teachers been interviewed? Have other pupils been victims of this man? You mentioned photos? Are you widening your search to this man's home? How many children has he corrupted?" Boris's voice soft and even, not reflecting his inner turmoil. How would he tell his daughters? How would they react? Prison was too good for this supposed scholar entrusted with not only his son but hundreds of children's welfare. Sasha had already suffered inhuman abuse, this was another trauma on top of the blackmail, torture, abduction and near death.

Viktor over the summer had witnessed the change in Boris, from a politician worn down by compromise and failure to lose faith and drive to reform and improve Russia, having lost power, he had not succumbed to his habit of heavy drinking but was healthier, drinking only in company and sparingly, becoming a parent again had restored his vigour. "Let us take Sasha home. His trust issues are obviously worse than we thought. He must have been keeping this secret, which explains his anxiety, the vomiting and his reluctance to talk to you or the psychologist. I understand. I would not want people to know a teacher, a male teacher, was doing this. This must have been happening for a while. No wonder he ran fifteen kilometres back to the Kremlin rather than the 300 metres back here after the car incident. How much damage have I done by saying it was safe here? Forgive me, your Excellency, I have failed you and more to the point I have failed Sasha when I vetted this school as safe."

...

Alex woke and realised he was in his bed back home. Boris was sat in the armchair, snoring. Sitting up, the teenager frowned. That bitch of a nurse had drugged him. His protests that he was fine had been misconstrued as panic and denial. He could bet the sedative was making him feel this awful as he'd only drunk four shots of shop bought standard strength vodka, not the 90% proof lethal illegally distilled medicinal brew preferred by Ola. He was ravenously hungry considering he had missed lunch because of lover boy yesterday. He blushed in shame, he had planned to reassure Boris he was fine, in control teasing and manipulating the bastard to forget himself and dig his own grave. Playing drunk and out if it, he had nearly sniggered when the very jolly hockey sticks other teacher had walking in and screamed loud enough to wake the dead then beat the pervert into submission.

Looking at the clock it was 8:39, the next morning. For the second time he had no idea where his uniform was. Probably not still in sicko's office, but bagged up undergoing forensic testing. One thing Alex was sure of this was not a first time occurrence for Dirty Mr. Grayson. Others, probably still at school, had been photographed, touched and possibly even raped. He had made the right decision, he had timed it perfectly, not as bad as Paris when he'd been drugged, stripped and photographed by the delightful Miss Stomachbag. He needed to explain that to Boris. He'd survived worse and he'd stopped that bastard getting away with preying on other lonely kids with no friends and blackmailing them into silence. That guy was a pussy cat compared to Blunt.

Getting up to pee, Alex silently crept to the door, but his trip to the John was observed by Viktor who was making breakfast. "Morning Sasha. Get freshened up and I'll get Boris up. We have a lot to discuss."


	8. Chapter 8

"I'm not lying!" bellowed the irate teenager as his right hand smacked down on the table for dramatic effect, the shout loud enough to mask the sound of his hand shattered his tea glass. In swift move, to hide his injury, his hand was dropped onto his lap and he quickly glanced at large shards stuck into his palm and fingers. Blood flowing freely over his palm and into his trousers.

Ignoring the throbbing pain, he spoke softly and reworded the facts, "I froze when I realised it was not a meeting about football practice. He had a rehearsed speech, half emoting about it ok to 'like boys' and then the veiled threats about telling you my dirty secret. I was caught between wanting to clobber him good and proper and wanting to run when I realised it was a well versed trap. Rather than panic, I felt strangely calm, like someone else had taken control. I knew I was not the first get called in for special treatment. Someone had to stop him, simple to lay a trap with the premise I not play the victim, but acted like I was enticed with his attentions. Sure, I was acting all seductive and sly. The guy made me want to vomit. Apart from that initial touch on my thigh, he never touched me again. I suggested we relax and we downed a few vodkas, I then did a very drawn out drunken striptease while he took photos. He got his cock out and started masturbating when I got down to my pants and vest, when the next lesson started and he was caught in the act. More fool him, I had my eye on the clock all the time. If he'd tried to force me to do anything beyond look and not touch I'd have smashed his face in. The exact same scenario happened in Paris last Easter, there I was drugged stupid and could not move as a creepy doctor photographed me naked." Alex took a deep breath, as emotions ran high recalling that horror. "This time I was in total control, not him, me. He will never get the chance to abuse or blackmail a kid again, so it was worth it!"

Viktor sighed and gestured to Alex's feet "you are bleeding all over an antique silk hand woven carpet. Let me tend your wound before you bleed to death." The security officer stood and looked at the damage. Boris immediately retrieved the first aid kit and then silently watched as the imbedded glass shards were extracted with tweezers and the wounds cleaned. "Get some rest Boris, this needs to be stitched. I will take him to the clinic in our compound."

...

It was ten before the doctor finished the delicate sewing together of the larger cuts and gave strict instructions to come back in two days to have the wounds inspected. Viktor then sat next to Alex on the examination bed as the doctor filled in the prescription for pain medication and antibiotics. "Boris does not understand people like us, but you are showing classic symptoms of PTSD. Impulsive risk taking is dangerous, but you are not to blame. Five months of fighting for your life and you have no basis for normal behaviour anymore. You do not have to save the world. You could have come home and told me about that bastard and I would have made sure the Investigators put him away for a very long time, with no need to endanger yourself. He might have drugged your vodka with GHB, what then little avenger. Your poor papa is beyond shocked, but he will love you even if you are gay. It is not illegal here anymore, just you need to be aware of the prejudice. Anyway, I am taking you to the psychologist, talk to her this time. Especially about yesterday and maybe mention this injury. You did not flinch, made no indication you were in pain, even when I took out the shards without a local anaesthetic. You have learned to cope on your own, fight your own battles, to survive against all odds. Now you get to live. Even old bastards like me like the quiet boring jobs. Afghanistan cured me of any high ideals of playing the hero. Spying is the least heroic profession. It's about lies, stealing, blackmail, murder, extortion, seduction, and threats. You little hero are a good child, too good for sneaking about and lying left, right and centre. Don't get corrupted too soon. Grow up before you decide to play the a Great Game. Better still, become a scholar and make Boris proud. His girls are fine examples to follow, me and my fellows not so much."

The pair walked to the private consulting rooms of the government approved psychologist. Dr. Maya Gregoriova had let Alex read during his first two sessions. He sat in the plush office and wanted to ignore the fact he'd been ordered to talk. The teenager was wanting with his whole being to be belligerent. He had to start somewhere as the good doctor patiently waited for him to be comfortable enough, "I want to be a better son for Boris. I've been trying very hard, but it's like trying to complete a jigsaw puzzle without all the pieces and the wrong picture on the front of the box. I have been given everything I ever wanted, a family. My sister's are so level headed, lovely and really wonderful, but I'm a bit nuts. I can't talk to kids. Well, Nikolai treats me like a kid, because he's seven months older than me, twelve kilos heavier and twenty centimetres taller. I'm not the shortest at school, too skinny though. I haven't put back on the weight I lost this summer. It's not just being foreign. I never had parents before, just staff looking after me most of the time and training missions disguised as family holidays. When all you've known is lies, neglect, abuse and blackmail, how do you cope when adults want to help, nurture and protect you? The world had turned on its head for me and I need to work harder not to mess up, because I really don't want to go back. I like it here."

"Do you miss anything from home."

"Playing football with James and Tom, but James had been a bit weird lately. He did not know how to cope with the fact I stopped talking. Easiest way of not spilling the beans on how shit my life had become was too stop talking. That never fazed Tom, cause he has the ability to make any conversation two way by answering any questions for you. He suffered at home cause his parents caught all the time, so he could never gat a word in edgeways."

"You know you can still like all the things you liked before." Looking up from her notes, she looked directly at her patient's brown eyes and steered the conversation back to her current concerns regarding this patient. "So was your appointment missed last night because you hurt your hand at school?"

Alex looked at the mummy like appendage and smiled, as he had been brought back to talk about the present trouble with a direct question, no more waffle allowed. "No, I smashed a tea glass at breakfast and Viktor wants me to talk to you about it. Only seven stitches. At school in Grenoble, I had seventeen stitches after snowboarding into a barb wire fence. I find injuries are like top trumps. What's you best gash, cut or stab wound?"

It was the psychologist's turn to smile as she faced off an accomplished opponent in the game of deflection and denial.

...

Ola had not expected her father to turn up at her office during work hours. It was a first in the many years she'd studied and worked here. The man looked troubled, "so papa wolf, what has our black bear done? I warned you that joy of a raising a teenager would be nothing compared to the shadows of his nefarious past. When he has been expected to put his own well-being last on the orders of those devils in London and Washington."

"You are still my baby, as I have a young adult to guide in Sasha. He has no innocence behind his angelic facade. Maybe he is an avenging angel, because he pulled out his divine sword of justice from it's shealth yesterday. The sports instructor was selecting pupils for special favours and made the mistake of choosing Sasha. The man has already signed a confession and pleaded guilty, the deal agreed is that he will be deported and serve his 15 years sentence in a British jail." The man poured himself tea from the thermos on his daughter's desk. "The psychologist has suggested home schooling, can you help me tutor him?"


	9. Chapter 9

Returning to his room in the apartment, which in reality was the guest room furnished in antiques and art on loan from the State Collection. The young man was not a guest, this was his space, yet he had not chosen these furnishings nor anything in the room. In the closet most of the clothes hand me downs, though several books in there were his. Most were educational and the few cherished gifts since arriving and a pile borrowed from the library, as Boris was an avid reader and here he had developed that habit. He was happy to let his new father chose all entertainment. Mostly the news and factual programs on TV. Even CNN and the BBC on occasion, as a full picture of different versions of the truth was sought. Music was classical and plays, ballet and opera were treats. He had not watched sport since he arrived. This was the first time this season he'd wondered how Chelsea were doing?

There had been computers at school, but he had not dared to log onto his email or any familiar chat rooms. Did Sabina, Tom or James miss him? Had his absence even been commented on? He guessed the school had been told he'd changed guardianship or maybe he was a nonperson now. There was no official records connecting Alex Rider to Aleksandr Kiriyenko. Lost via several legends since Ian's death. Not Felix Lester, not Alex Friend, not Alex Gardiner and definitely not Aleksandr Alekseyevich Sarov. There had been no legend for the reconnaissance mission in Iraq, no papers at all for the teenager working in Black Ops. He had been called Cub by the sarcastic SAS team providing cover in Basra. His MI6 handler had never bothered using his name either, just sneered to the 'Special Agent sent from London' or 'Blunt's new toy'.

He stood and took in all the details of the dark decor and shrugged, thinking of James Sprintz's throwaway comment on his room at Point Blanc about decorating to make it less like a prison. Did he really think this was temporary? It had been nearly three months. Even the US Embassy had corroborated that dodgy CIA passport was genuine. Not his, but some other poor kid who's identity he was borrowing, like Felix Lester at the start of this madness. There was the near uncontrollable urge to break every rule and to run around Red Square shouting "I am Alex Rider. I'm British, born in London'. Maybe save that for outside the British Consulate sometime, when he really went stir crazy.

In the sitting room, an old man pondered several invitations, his correspondence forgotten this morning due to yesterday's upset. He was no longer persona non grata. The very informal visit from the US ambassador's snooty wife had signalled the end of his period in disgrace. The misinformation about his health had not been believed by anyone. He was viewed as an honourable man, because he stepped down to take guardianship of an illegitimate child. The ruse would place the conception and birth during his term as Politburo member, protege of Gorbachev and Mayor of Moscow.

Two invitations mentioned Sasha by name. He disapproved of this expectation that his son should become a public figure. His daughters had both been adults when he ran for the presidency in 1991, but he had been politically active since his youth, as was Tasha, who was still a advocate for reform, legal rights and free speech. A discussion for dinner tonight, there was no one he could ask for help with this delicate problem. His American counterparts had been in power with teenage children, yet he was in the limbo of retirement, the etiquette of which was new ground. He had defied the expectation to isolate himself in his dacha like Gorbachev, when he returned to the Kremlin, housed in a modest three bedroomed staff apartment, across the compound from the palatial accommodation assigned to the elected President. Many would have preferred him to be out of sight, as he was still very popular. He had no secretary anymore and was glad the staff here dealt with all non personal mail. Gifts sent for his son were currently all gifted to the State Orphanages, as Alex insisted considering he should have been housed there. Sarov, in officially claiming Alex had saved him from that fate, if not prison or deportation.

His musing was disturbed by his son, who entered looking distracted. "Papa, can I ask the staff office for some odd jobs to earn pocket money? It's safe if I stay within the compound and you have some time to get back into moving and shaking. We both need other pursuits before we're at each other's throats. I also want to see the curators about my room. I have questions about my books, I keep them in my closet but book selves would be handy, I also want to know if I can put up posters. The art is fine but it's our home not a museum."

The worry lifted from Boris for several reasons, Alex was really considering here home and wanted to rearrange his room, asking permission to do so and seeking spending money through work not expecting hand outs. "That is an excellent idea. I wish you luck. See the tourist reception, I hear the tips are good for the volunteer tour guides. Please be back by five. I think a simple supper for just the two of us. I told Viktor to go home. I was beginning to think he was planning to move in. Though it was nice having someone else cook breakfast for a change"

Alex walked to the main gate to ask about work and considered the fact, Boris had cooked all the meals here, with him assisting. Though he normally cleaned up after meals. He had to learn, to do more. He was complacent over staff cleaning. Maybe cook meals he liked, he missed pasta and toasties. Food was important to the former president, he had raised Tanya and Ola, cooking recipes he'd learnt from his mother. Alex had no real background in home cooking, beyond ten minute pasta dishes and variations of sandwiches. Most dishes had always been shop bought to heat up as Jack loathed preparing meals. He had cleaned and done laundry in London. Jack had really only been there to act in the role of responsible adult because Ian had better things to do. Here Alex was first priority not last. He wanted to reciprocate his gratitude. The game plan was learning to trust so he could thrive, not live in fear of his past. It was quite literally another country,

...

Tom Harris slammed shut his locker at school, hopefully for the last time. Inside were his uniform, books and pencil case. In his backpack were three changes of clothes, snuck into school over two weeks. He had all his savings from his summer job, the sale of Alex's PlayStation and the his best friend's games, kept at Tom's house because Ian had disapproved of such wasteful pastimes. Weird because Ian had been fine about Alex's less than legal gambling, cheating and scamming money making schemes.

The young Londoner had his passport, never given back to his mother for safe keeping after the school trip, and a bus ticket from London to Paris. The first step of his journey to back to Italy. His horizons has broadened after the school trip to Venice and a week with Jerry this summer. Why stay here if he was unhappy? Life was too short and uncertain for pandering to his useless parents, so wrapped up in fuelling their own misery they ignored him completely. His impetuous to leave was the fact his best friend was gone. The lonely boy with no other close friends had nothing to stay here for. This year he had watched his best friend change from sporty, happy, very independent and self reliant to become a shadow of his former confident self. Alex had been arrested twice, had been withdrawn, silent, sullen and wary of everyone. Tom had no idea why his friend had missed weeks of school between March and June, whenJack had acted like nothing was wrong. In September, Alex had not returned to Brookland and the house on Cheyne Walk was empty and up for sale.

Nobody had any idea when or where Alex had gone and the only person in school who cared was the secretary, Miss Bedfordshire. James Hale openly crowed to all that Alex was a druggie and was now in Borstal. Tom had gone as far to raise his concerns with the Police and Social Services, but had heard nothing, like his best friend had disappeared into thin air. The bus left at 5, he'd be on the second leg to Nice by breakfast. The note left on the fridge stated he was staying over with Alex. His parents had no idea that his friend was history and would probably not raise the alarm until if and when Jerry let them know Tom had run away.


	10. Chapter 10

The walk to the psychologists office was becoming a regular repast. Today's session discussed the dynamic between father and son. Living with his new father had taught him the man loved flirting, but still grieved for the loss of his true love. Family therapy was strange when Alex stated "I am a complete novice regarding father and son dynamic, but family is way more than genes, that family before lacked on every level, end of story. A stranger has treated me exactly the same as his children born of love." He was unwanted, abandoned , had grown up relying only on himself. Here, a foreigner, where everything was alien and new, he had found home.

Boris had recounted the truth of his decline and fall in politics, as he had lost sight of what was important, hemmed in on all sides as reforms were stifled by hardliners, economic problems and the procrastination of compromise again and again. He had lost everything and found himself again by adopting a child who had been misused by many.

The hour was nearly up, but here they could both talk freely of the strange circumstances of their new family between reluctant spy and deposed president. "Thank you for saving me from a cynical lonely decline into obscurity. You showed me the necessity of survival by weaving truth masked by layers of misinformation and lies. The hint of scandal has overridden the derision of me as Buffoon, the fact by choosing to do the right thing I am seen as a honourable man again. If I had been ignorant and selfish, the coldest bastards in state security would have sent you back to be hurt again and again. You were a mere tool there and here you are protected because of their misinformation. Truth is stranger than fiction and we have saved each other. Thank you, Sasha. We are a team vigilant in this dangerous world of politics and espionage."

Alex held his father's hand. "I read descriptions of people feeling born again through religious experiences. I am born again here. I know the past has cast shadows that will disrupt life from time to time, but I trust you to guide me and help me when I lapse into destructive behaviour. I can't promise I won't be impulsive. It's now part of me, the genie is out of that bottle, I'm afraid."

...

Alex had undertaken his first tour yesterday and with that windfall from tips he was treating Boris to lunch. Overall, this week had been very positive after the shit exit from school. The restaurant chosen by Alex was popular, Italian place serving pasta and pizza. Until he ate the first mouthful of the lasagne ordered, he did he realise how much he missed eating non-Russian food.

The old man watched his son eat like he was starving. His own plate of spaghetti carbonara was a pale imitation of a dish he had eaten serval times when he had visited Rome for a state visit.

Alex finished his lunch and sat back, sated and happy. "After our session today, I need to fill you in about Point Blanc. Touted as a boarding school for bad boys guaranteeing miraculous results exclusively for wealthy or influential parents. I got my place posing as the son of Sir David Friend, legend being I was expelled from Eton. Exposed the completely insane headmaster with eight psychotic clones all surgically altering them to replace the boys in his care. One was from Russia, I met real kids when everyone imprisoned downstairs was freed after the SAS stormed the place. There was a clone here in Russia. Can you find out what happened to the Grief clone who was posing as the son of General Viktor Ivanov? Is Dimitry OK? I was there when they told Paul Roscoe and Dimitry Ivanov their dad's had died and the clones had been arrested as accessories to murder. It must have been awful for both of them. I never got the chance to find out as my own clone evaded capture and came to London and tried to kill me. That was the whole incident at school in Chelsea at Easter. Come to think of it, best check if Julius is either deceased or in custody, considering he is a nearly perfect copy of me. The whole operation was sparked by Michael Roscoe in the first place, as his son had returned home a complete creep. He must have been killed after I went undercover."

The other diner was shocked at this confession from the boy sent on an undercover mission to scout out extortionists and murderers. In March, he had attended the funeral of General Ivanov and probably consoled the clone. He had not been aware of this situation at all. In the back of the politician's mind was the real problem, how could you tell the difference between clones, probably with DNA? Would The British use their clone of Sasha to undermine or even eliminate their lost teenage operative. He had no idea about the repatriation and repercussions for this Dima after he returned home to face the actions of his usurpers and the murder of his father. Boris had been told the General's unexpected death had been the result of an accident. He would be phoning the very people who had deposed him, telling them he was aware of another of their carefully guarded secrets and had insider information about Blunt's connections to several billionaires.

...

Dimitry hated State Orphanage No. 12 and this was the best in the Moscow Region. It was better than France, but only just. Despite his privileged upbringing, he had no access to his inheritance until he was eighteen. He had the drive now to excel in school and suffer the taunts and hazing of the bullies here. He had become the boy his father had paid Grief to shape him into. Driven, hard working and ambitious to destroy the system that did not care about children orphaned and without close relatives willing to house such unfortunate problems. His own cousins had no empathy, seeing only his record as disruptive in school and arrested for minor misdemeanours. In the small, poorly stocked library, he rewrote his history essay, calculating the teacher's own favourite points to get a top mark. His work disturbed by Grishka running in and blurting out for all to hear, "you're being fostered, you lucky bastard! Get upstairs and pack up your stuff, I'm claiming your bunk. It must be lucky. No one older than twelve has been fostered ever! Come on, there is car waiting. A Mercedes limo, back to the high life for you, Dima!"

In the office of the Director was sat the former president himself signing the guardianship papers for the delinquent son of General Ivanov, the foster placement sponsored by the current Minister of Family Affairs. The imperious man dressed impeccably, who had two daughters of a more suitable age to be parents, yet he had recently taken on a thirteen year old to care for. Boris smiled at the sour faced official, knowing the man in charge of this grim place brought little to no joy to the lives of his charges, "if I had known none of Viktor's friends and family had stepped forward I would have check on Dima sooner. I would have paid for suitable schooling for Dimitry as his school reports are impeccable. My son asked after him recently and I was shocked to find him here. To think he has a substantial legacy, several homes he could have lived in with supervision. His father's chosen executor has failed the man's most precious son completely. This is a situation close to my heart, most would have sent Sasha to an orphanage rather than face up to consequences of past illicit liaisons."

Boris wondered on his recent drive to right others wrongs. Viktor had not been a man many liked and his son was paying the price for the late general's authoritarian disposition. Basic psychology stated children acted out because of a problem in communication or the need for love and reassurance. The dark haired fifteen year old arrived with two bags of belongings and clothes too small for his lanky frame. "Good afternoon Dimitry Viktorovich. We met eighteen months ago at your mother's funeral. A good woman, taken too soon like my own beloved wife. I have raised my daughters alone, now my son. You will be sharing a room with Sasha, who is thirteen. He is looking forward to seeing you. Come, he is preparing dinner for us."

The young man had been silent on the short journey south and watched out of the window, memorising the route. He was assuming a trip out to a dacha and was surprised when the car turned into the entrance into the Kremlin. He walked two steps behind his new father as they walked up two flights of stairs to a suite of functional rooms, neither ostentatious or extensive for a former president. The tour showed a small kitchenette, a single bathroom, office, main room, small dining room, Sasha's impeccably neat bedroom and then the door of the head of the household's bedroom.

Earnestly, Boris reassured his new charge, "I am a light sleeper. I will be in here or the office at night if you need me. I put Sasha to bed at nine. He is a fitful sleeper and he wakes early, at five. You will be used to sharing. Sasha will bring dinner up soon, he is having a cooking lesson in the main kitchens. I think it will be a French cuisine tonight. Sasha spent time growing up with his previous guardian in Paris. He also lived in a Berlin, but cannot remember liking much food there. His current hobby is teaching himself Italian." His son had charmed the Head Chef, Jean-Pierre Larrotte, who was happy to chat in his native tongue and teach an eager child the basics of gastronomy. "You may want to join Sasha on his adventures around the Kremlin. He works as a volunteer tour guide and helps in the kitchens washing up two nights a week. He gets fed, brings food home and more importantly gets paid. The cooking lessons are when Jean-Pierre can fit them in. I will endeavour to teach you both my small repertoire of basic good food. You will learn to manage all household chores to prepare for your future."

Then a short, skinny kid with blond hair came in carrying a tray, "chicken chasseur with pommes anna and endive salad. A feast to welcome Dima to our bizarrely strange family."

The orphan's mouth dropped open as he watched his new brother plate up the food. Then pour out vodka into three ice cold glasses. He then found his voice, "Alex the spy?"

"Sasha, Alex has been left in the past. I'll fill you in later. Eat. I already tried it, it's OK, I promise." The younger son then held up his glass for a toast. "Welcome to the family, Dimitry Viktorovich. It's been a wild ride for me. Hang on, it's unlikely to ever be boring."

...


	11. Chapter 11

Jerry Harris had been expecting Tom to turn up on his doorstep since he left London five years ago. He had only stayed until his seventeenth birthday to look after his kid brother, who on reaching eleven could fight his own corner at home or more likely barricade himself into his room. After three days, neither Frank or Ellie Harris had enquired after their missing child, so he went to the local family crisis centre and applied for emergency custody and got his brother a place at the local school. Tom was good at football, had a brilliant sense of humour and enough Italian to get by. It was likely enough of a culture shock to send the fourteen year old back to London, where either foster parents or a children's home awaited him. The extreme sports instructor had already laid out the law to his new flat mate. Keep up at school, which was his brother's problem and nothing to do with Jerry, get a job at the weekends to help with the bills and help out at home with cooking and keeping the living room tidy in the one bedroom apartment, because that was where he was sleeping.

Next month, they would move north, when the twenty three year old became a ski instructor attached to a five star hotel in the Italian Alps. It was going to be tough, it wasn't like he made loads of dosh, just enough to get by comfortably on his own, providing for two was going to be a stretch. He would get little to no help from Mum and Dad because they were useless.

The one thing that had brightened up Tom's whole disposition when he arrived was reading the postcard Alex had sent to Tom via the agency Jerry worked for. It showed a picture of some resort on the Black Sea stating simply 'Adopted, Happy and Healthy. See you when I'm over 18, Love Alex.' Cryptic but to the point.

...

Edward Pleasure went through his exercises after he got out of bed. His plan today was to go swimming and build up strength in his damaged leg. The two months in hospital and another six weeks in the rehab centre had been tough, but every friend had helped with research for him. Working had kept him sane and meant his latest book about the megalomaniac Cray had been edited and was already with the printers. He pondered the three possible projects as he did repartitions. There was expose on the massive overspend on the ArkAngel space hotel, a dead duck as it had no approved launch capability, the rise of Desmond McCain as a knockoff Bob Geldof and finally the dark horse of Boris Kiriyenko.

The investigative reporter trusted his instincts and was leaning toward arranging an interview with the scandal rocked ex-president of Russia. Before the bombing, his opinion of the man was a hard drinking, populist and rather ineffectual figure head. After a decade in power, most had forgotten his pivotal role in stabilising Russia after the collapse of the Soviet Union, the failed hard line coup deposing Gorbachev and steering warring factions to form a modern democratic state. The man's fall from power had sparked rumours a failed plot by General Alexei Sarov, a key ally, early on, in the former Mayor of Moscow's political career and then covered up stating poor health for the nearly seventy year old. The man had resurfaced in the Russian tabloid press after taking guardianship of an American born illegitimate son. The gossip rags in Russia pursuing the red herring of who was that boy's mother. The was the real story was Sarov, though scandalous either way. He had some background research to do first.

Limping downstairs, his daughter was sat eating her fruit and yogurt already, no school books out for a change, but she was busy texting. "Morning, dad. How do you trace someone who's been adopted? Tom Harris finally answered my email and told me Alex has a new family, but no details of where, when or who. Sounds like he might be in witness protection because both his text to me and Tom's postcard said see you after I'm 18."

The journalist made himself a pot of tea and knew his answer would not satisfy his daughter. "Adoption records are sealed and can only be accessed with a court order. Alex had bad people after him, safer for him and his new family if he has full legal protection. You can ask Kensington and Chelsea Social Services yourself, but they will probably say the same thing. Have you tried talking to Jack?"

Sabina put her phone down, "don't speak about her. She wrote a weird email about being under CIA surveillance. All that after telling us this summer he was off on holiday with friends. What friends? I have spoken to every single member of Alex's class at Brookland now. She's lying, but why? You are right about contacting social services, everything is very fishy."

...

Tucked up in bed, Alex handed over some sweets to his new brother. The candy had been given to him by the lovely custodians, who thought he was too thin and needed feeding up, pity he didn't really like such treats. "It's weird, but it's the best outcome I reckon. Boris is old fashioned, very traditional, but totally straight. He is patient, hell he waited months for me to fess up about MI6. Give him a chance. In my opinion he is a great dad, but I have nothing to measure against as this is my first rodeo with an actual parental figure who gives a shit. We never really talked after the shit went down in France. The orphanage must have been the worst though."

Dima looked at the ornate ceiling, the shadows cast on the dark wallpaper and the small ikon in the corner. So different from his fathers house. A man who hated traditional things, thinking such things backward. "It will be different having a father who listens, communicates and is kind. It was a shock to be left in the state's care, but I survived worse. So tell me about living here in a palace."

Alex spoke of his timid first few weeks, walking only between the gate and the apartment, only chatting to security, who thought he was a shy, polite and sheltered. The epiphany of accepting this was home, gave him the freedom to explore. Joining the tours, both public and following the custodians around and asking questions. Meeting the various support staff, getting a job in the kitchens and being welcomed to take tours around because he spoke French, German, Spanish and wanted to improve his Japanese.

Dima had never been adventurous. His father, his birth father, had disapproved of asking questions and the nannies were hired for their disciplining skills and ability at keeping the necessary heir quiet. His mother had always been wife first and only occasional mother. Alex had survived, no thrived, with less before. Just an uncle with exacting demands for perfection. "So, tutoring? How does that work?"

Considering how anti he'd been to the hone schooling ultimatum, Alex liked it. "Two different post grads are employed, vetted by Ola. Misha teaches maths and science. Anya teaches world history, literature and both English and Russian language. I'm on self study for languages. Sport is with most of the security staff. A mix of running, swimming and self defence, mostly between 6 and 7:15am. All in all, it's been cool, way better than school. Though you have to concentrate and work. No day dreaming or slacking off when it's one on one."

Dmitry stopped gazing upwards and rolled over to look straight at his new roommate. A dorm of two was luxury compared to sharing with twenty. "So about the other guys, I've been writing infrequently to my cellmate, Paul. He keeps in touch with the others. I take it your former masters never let you stay friends with Jamie Sprintz."

"I have sent a couple postcards. Kolya post a bunch to my friends during a school tip to the Crimea. Just cryptic messages about not being in touch. Spooky of me I know, but I kind of like it here. Helped by the almost kosher cover provided by the yanks , which gave me enough background to deny everything about MI6. Boris is a perfect smoke screen as he likes flirting. If you say I'm a good friend from the old days, Paul might get the reference, but only if you underline friend. You'll have to send him a photo as well."

"How bad was it after school? You look so skinny now."

Alex sighed dramatically, "I know. Stress. I've only just got back in the swing of eating and stopped vomiting regularly. Give me a few more months of nothing bad going on and I'll be fine. Boris write what I eat in a diary. He'll probably ask you to checkup on me as well. The good point of being too skinny is my stash of candy, which is yours as well. The ladies in the main office spoil me. Helps to look like a kid still. Once I get lanky and spotty like Kolya the spoiling will end."


	12. Chapter 12

Sabina Pleasure sat waiting in the council reception, this time waiting for someone in Social Services to acknowledge her presence as her four phone messages and seven emails had gone unanswered. Her dad had warned her any official reply would be negative, but she wanted that reply in writing to stop her current crusade in finding her friend. It was bugging her, female intuition was not a valid reason for pursing this, but something bad had happened this summer for Alex just to leave without a goodbye. She had his far too brief postcard in her bag, posted in the Ukraine, was that where he had been all summer. The note said nothing about himself only that he wished her and her family well having belatedly heard about Nice. Where had he been when that horror had not got to him, the attempted assassination had been front page news after the fire department found out it had been a bomb not a gas leak. Cray had been dead by his own hand by the time the police pinned the deed to him.

The sixteen year old checked her phone, the forty minutes seemed like hours as she watched people come and go. Opening up her prep book again to use the time to review corrections made the to last weeks homework. At 4:50, a middle aged overweight guy with bad clothes, scruffy beard and worn shoes approached. "Ms Pleasure? Sorry for the delay, I was busy tracking down Alexander Rider's records, the computer system has a glitch today, luckily we have a paper trail still. It looks like his case officer, who left in August had been sitting on his paperwork and no one caught on. Fourteen valid complaints against Ian Rider, ten against Ms Starbright, Alex was put on the at risk register in 1996. The same time his previous case officer joined us. In the last year, we have seven complaints from the school, and now he's disappeared. A police officer from Operation Yewtree is on his way here to take mine and your statements. The attempted drowning suggests someone trying to silence him and well, the fact his best friend ran away makes it sound like we have an organised cell exploiting at risk teenagers. Interpol will get a statement from Tom Harris. There has been no applications for adoption. He might turn up, but if he's been trafficked abroad, we may never get answers."

...

Edward had listened to Sabina's relay the outcome of her first investigation and now comforted her as she wept. Liz had left the room and was now stress baking. There was an arrest warrant out for Jack Starbright, the chances of an extradition were slim to nil with no evidence of foul play, just hearsay. Any lawyer worth their salt would dismiss Chelsea and Kensington Social Services concerns and quote the hard reality of teenage runaway and suicide statistics. The truth was Jack had never been a legal guardian, except loosely as a live in babysitter. The police had chased the sicknotes sent to Brookland and all were forgeries. The fallout had spread to the Department of a Education, as Henry Bray was on paid suspension until a full review considered the two missing students.

Rather than chase a story abroad, he had a new story to follow here. Dear god, he had never thought to say anything when Alex never returned their calls about joining them on holiday to France and were fobbed off by Jack's brief reassurance that Akex was with friends . He felt guilty, but he and Liz were blameless. Why had Alex not said anything, probably because he was being threatened. The answer lay with the decidedly dodgy investment bank his uncle had worked for. Either a front for the mafia or the triads, or worse. The rumours of a highly organised well connected pedophile ring had circulated a few years back. Hence the council contacting operation Yewtree. He choked back a sob. This was too awful to be true.

After Liz and Sabina retired upstairs, Edward went into his office and looked over the detailed notes provided by his daughter. She had from a chart showing the absences from school. Alex had missed most of school since March. His daughter had underlined the words Wimbledon and John Crawley. The man who had been a colleague of Ian Rider, the uncle with a fourteen neglect and abuse complaints lodged, escaping each by temporarily moving abroad.

The journalist would chase each temporary home with see if there was a similar pattern of neglect and emotional abuse. He then noted Alex's peculiar skill set: talented footballer, black belt in karate, keen runner and cyclist, spoke French, Spanish and German fluently and was proficient in Japanese. There was a link between his skills, his uncle's work and him missing large amounts of school since Ian's death. Was his uncle's death an accident or was it? He needed a partner as he could no longer do the footwork himself. He then checked his email, the Kremlin had given his request for an interview to Boris Kiriyenko and his excellency had written personal reply, the translation provided by his son Sasha, suggesting an informal meeting in Moscow. The man suggested bring along his wife and daughter in late November or early December, whenever was convenient. It was friendly and open. Did this man not know what he did for a living? This would be the family discussion in the morning. It made the timescale for his investigation into Alex tight, but delegation was now his key to working, thanks to Cray.

...

November had passed in a blur of schoolwork, games, work and family bonding for the two foster brothers. Their skiing holiday in January had grown to include a group of Dimitry's friends and family. Paul had written to ask if Boris was open for another foster child, only half in jest.

Dimitry looked over the ski clothes Alex had bought and bartered for their holiday. All good quality, not badly worn but definitely second hand. He frowned thinking on this new normal. He was wearing second hand clothes, smart and high quality for their outing tonight, but still previously worn by some unknown. His treatment not less favourable as so was Alex. Life before had been the contradiction of privilege and an emotional wasteland. Here, with the support of an attentive father, who was expecting his charges to have a degree of financial independence, yet provided a creative and empathetic education based on their individual needs. No control, no unachievable expectations, no outrageously disproportionate punishments. Exile and imprisonment for rebellion would never happen with the man who was willing to discuss, listen, guide, compromise and argue reasonably and admit fault when necessary. He had always called his parents mother and father, Boris was papa. It fit him. The little spy was called black bear cub, which fit as well. Ola had called Dima lone wolf to her father's papa wolf. Dimitry had found kindred spirits in Tasha and their father, discussing social issues and politics both domestic and international, while the spy pretending to be younger misbegotten progeny discussed literature and art with Ola. Tonight they were all going to the opera, on display to public and press alike. They would be sat in the Imperial Box with the newly elected president, his wife and two teenage daughters. Pure photo opportunity as the incumbent had risen to prominence as the former head of state security for Boris.

Fourteen year old Katya was surprised that she was the same size as the old fool's bastard son. She was considered petite, with the physique of a dancer, but Sasha was prettier and had long fingers, natural blond hair and soulful brown eyes. Instead of following her mother's and elder sister's demeanour of cool superiority, the fourteen year old year old wished for the camaraderie of the two boys, strangers until recently yet more siblings than she was with her shrill, cruel and divisive sister. She laughed along with Boris and Dimitry at Sasha's dry wit earning twin glares from Mother and Veronica, then her father laughed. For the first, she was the centre of her father's attention.

Sasha Levrov has entered politics after the end of the Soviet Union and had learned the knack of balancing popularism and appeasing the real power brokers from the old man. The man was still a master of popularism. Raising two boys, not just the British boy who bewitched the fool Sarov but Ivanov's promising son. Tonight his youngest daughter had finally shown some backbone and defied her mother. He needed to show Katya more attention. Maybe she should befriend Dimitry. The boy was going to inherit a sizeable fortune in less than three years. A perfect son-in-law law, better than the spineless young man Nika was dating. The overture started and the strange boy was sat close to Boris enraptured in the live music. As his youngest and her object of affection spoke in soft whispers and stifled giggles, the new president watched the younger boy mouth the words to the arias. Boris stroking his hair. The forty five year old Russian's eyes strayed to his eldest daughter and wife, both were bored rigid, neither artistic or musical in nature. His advantageous marriage had burned through any passion before the birth of Katya. He had lost himself in the tedium work then discovered his real vocation in politics. Maya would return to the dacha and leave him to work and continue to fuck the gardener. She thought he was oblivious. Rather the help fuck the ice maiden than him anyway. He would have an uncontested divorce in a few years. The bitch would have to settle for her dues then. If she had stayed faithful, their marriage would have been until death, but now he was counting the days until he broke the shackles of matrimony.

Life in the Kremlin had subtly changed with the new president in charge, his daughters living with him and his wife living out of town only venturing here for photo opportunities and state occasions. Alex watched the private dance lesson dressed in his running gear when the eagle eyed dance master called him in and ordered Katya to watch. The young observer's earlier PT session had been watched by the dance instructor, he gave Akex the basic rundown of positions and he mimicked perfectly. "There, Ekaterina look, full extension, from the tips of his fingers to his perfectly pointed toes, through the stretch of his back and neck to the top of his head. In future join Aleksandr for his self defence sessions and learn about movement rather than disgrace my tutoring with sloppy leaden efforts."

Alex looked at Katya and drolly stated "that was a c minus in put downs, you will learn to truly appreciate the caustic derision from Oleg as he calls me and Dima lazy useless wastes of spaces and pampered pastry stuffed princelings every day. Yes Dima is there getting his arse kicked black and blue as well. You can get to go one on one with your darling every day."


	13. Chapter 13

The CIA liaison at Moscow Embassy had said nothing at the time about his suspicion Alex Gardiner was a legend somehow linked back to the Covert Ops division, official title of the deputy director of interagency cooperation, because they took the dirty work across all federal agencies domestic and abroad. In June, Byrne had been chasing down a couple of kilos of high grade fissile material misplaced during decommissioning of Ukrainian intercontinental ballistic missives. His guess was on the button because right after the kids passport turned up in Moscow, the deputy director of interagency bullshit himself went undercover. Byrne was Langley's version of Teflon, a master of misdirection, wet work and the real dirt that everyone attached to subcommittees and federal funding denied ever happened on their watch and most dismissed him as a bean counter. A kid was involved. Rumours were that Blunt had used a highly trained kid in Iraq in May. Was it the same one? He'd seen both of Boris's kids last night at the Bolshoi. The undernourished blond boy looked like puberty had yet to strike was not fourteen until next summer, way to young. No wonder the Guardian journalist was trying to pin the tail on this donkey with the ruse of a mere interview of the retired President. Yet there was no request from Langley for a contact report or any higher level surveillance. The journalist had form digging up dirt as Pleasure's book on Cray was a number 1 bestseller detailing years of murder and megalomania left unchecked.

...

Edward had travelled to Moscow alone. Liz and Sabina planning a girl's weekend Christmas shopping despite the offer of a city break. This interview would pay the bills for a few months as an exclusive for Vanity Fair, as agreed with the Kremlin Press Office. His other investigation had ground to a halt, he had uncovered the serial failing of Ian Rider as a guardian, but his discussions off the record with Detective Inspector Manningham formerly the lead on Operation Yewtree and recently seconded to Interpol, had confirmed high level interference typical of national security overrides direct from spook central at Albert Embankment. His contact in the SAS had linked Alex to Special Forces training, the late Herod Sayle, Sir David Friend and a school in France involved in murder, extortion and kidnapping allegations and a very specialised infiltration job in Iraq. No proof of sexual exploitation, but suspicion of something far more nefarious, something government sanctioned as his uncles whole career had little to do with finance and was probably linked to unexplained thefts, deaths and disappearances during his time abroad. By accident rather than design he had stumbled across the blackest of intelligence operations masked behind the cover of a bank and a child trained by a sociopath to be a future spy. He was fashioning the tale into his details of own investigation of a shadow world.

The reluctant interviewer had booked into his hotel, walked across Red Square and presented himself at the visitor's entrance and a lanky dark haired teenager was waiting for him, "hello, is it Sasha or Dimitry?"

"Please call me Dima, Mr Pleasure. Our father is resting up at home with a cold today. Sasha is fussing over him. I have your press pass, come tea is waiting. English tea, my brother has insisted on baking Cornish scones and using china cups." The teen smiled broadly, "A Wedgwood teaset given to Tsarina Maria Federovna from your Queen Victoria."

The dark haired teen opened the apartment door then turned to leave, "I have another engagement with a young lady. Papa is in the sitting room ahead, just go in he's expecting you."

...

Three weeks before Christmas, there was no sign of any western influences in the apartment. No tree, no decorations even though it was advent for the Orthodox Church. He knew Russians really celebrated New Year and he doubted Boris, as an ex-Politburo member, was religious. The room was surprisingly cosy. Boris Kiriyenko was slimmer and healthier looking despite his cold than he had looked on his last public appearance before his illness. "Thank you for inviting me into your home, your Excellency."

In the kitchen a teenager laid out a tray, nervous and excited at the same time. Boris was all for full transparency and Alex keeping ties with his past. This was exile, but for his protection. The trade off had been his identity. He was still Alex Rider. He had nothing to hide. Healing meant regaining ownership of his own past. The tea bartered by Jean-Pierre from his counterpart at the British Embassy. He had learned the simplicity of baking. The first step to be a patisseriere. The chef had already complimented Alex on his patience and drive to perfect the basics, not wanting to be perfect straight away. Scones, then cake, then pastry and meringue. Alex almost laughed out loud. Here he was procrastinating about his plans of baking things he did not like to eat. Things Jean-Pierre assumed all children liked, Alex was trying to like them and failing. He liked eating Boris' pickles more. Tea today was an idyll of Englishness to placate his papa's endless worrying about his emotional well being. Dimitry understood that his new brother was hopelessly weird and completely unique.

Edward spoke enough Russian to order a drink and a meal. Grammar, tenses and interrogation was beyond him. He was waiting for the man's son to arrive and translate. There was the slim possibility that Boris was faking his complete ignorance of English and a more likely scenario that the man understood everything, but watching the journalist make a fool of himself was just that man's idea of fun.

A thin and cheerful blond boy arrived whistling a folk tune mostly hidden behind a heavily laden tray he was carrying. Placing his burden on the side table, he poured out the tea and plated up scones, already made up with cream and jam. He dutifully served his father first then Edward frowned as the tea handed to him had a touch of milk, just the way he liked it. Sasha then piped up in a familiar London accent "How are you, Edward? I sent a message to Sabina asking after you all. I hope she got it."

The journalist almost dropped his teacup, the disaster saved by Alex anticipating his shock. "I'm fine, Alex...er...Sasha. Almost as good as new. This is going to be one hell of a story. Will I be able to print any of it?"

...

The photographer arrived before dawn on Monday from LA after a stopover in London yesterday evening. The whole city a mix of white snow and grey slush. The travel guides stated Moscow was always more picturesque in winter. It looked like any other grey, drab and icy cold mix of ugly intermixed with a sparsity of genuine architectural delights. He sourly looked out of the window, hoping to get this gig over a done with this afternoon, when he saw his first glimpse of the Kremlin and the onion domes of the Cathedral which did look beautiful. He arrived at his hotel, thankful he could sleep until 10, as his late breakfast had already arranged after the hell of travelling half way across the globe.

The family group plus the award winning Edward Pleasure met him for lunch at the Pushkin Cafe. Two boys, not one, accompanied the elder statesman. The boys going ice skating at Gorky Park as a bribe to be good. He was stumped, there was no translator, no make up artist nor a stylist. Edward just sat back as the father and sons chatted happily in their native tongue. He got the distinct impression he was missing something, but from the body language he was definitely not the target of this in joke. The journalist was sat there sipping vodka like he was a close friend, not the man who had a reputation digging up decades old secrets.

"Thanks for the draft of your interview." The freelance photographer's interest was peeked as this was not the short straw he took it for. There must have been something spectacular from the old man, or more about the kid than the article disclosed. It mentioned the fail by the embassy here, but that was it, a mention. The whole piece was positive and upbeat about the family and brutally honest about the fact both kids were psychologically damaged by their ordeals in the system. The former president had a heart of gold beneath the caricature exterior. "Not your usual in depth piece, are you sitting on a bigger story?"

Edward shrugged "Truth is relative to your perspective. Let's go outside for a smoke."

The photographer lit up and offered a Marlboro Light to the fellow smoker, but Edward declined. "I quit in 1986, though I have been damn tempted to start again since July. So, off the record and I trust your complete digression. Sasha has been adopted by His Excellency. Who is not his biological father. Protected here thanks to the will of Boris' late best friend. Who was also not Sasha's biological father, but the late general's will stated the boy was the son of his heart not his body. This shit storm involves the Russians, the Cubans duped by two western spy agencies involved in illegal trafficking of a minor across several borders. It's a scoop, but I'm sitting on it until Sasha gives me the OK. Which means waiting until he's 18."


	14. Chapter 14

Alex woke tired and achy on Christmas morning. Only here it wasn't Christmas, just another day for Dimitry and Boris. His grumpiness was at new heights as he exercised in the dark, cold morning. He had made up ironic parcels for his family containing a chocolate bar, a can of coke and some socks and handed them out a breakfast as he half heartedly ate his buckwheat porridge, wishing for toast and marmite in a fit of homesickness. The day was still being celebrated, but he had mixed feelings over his invitation to the US Ambassadors for lunch today. Political posturing for sure, but Boris had calmly gone through all the advantages after weathering the teenager's rant about not going. The old man, kind and patient when hormones were in play. Explaining not one but a dozen reasons for Sasha to see the bigger picture, beyond the seclusion of the apartment.

Alex was ecstatic about his recent growth spurt, he was nearly as tall as Boris now. Dressing smart casual presented a new problem, his decent trousers were a good five centimetres too short and his good shoes pinched his toes when they hadn't last week. In the end, he borrowed Dima's clothes, trousers held up with a belt and the shirt and jacket sagged on his shoulders matched with his boots which still fit. The big clothes giving the impression he was still way too skinny, when in truth he was sticking to the targets and had broken his bad habit of skipping meals and stress vomiting.

The Marine on guard looked at the invitation, and then at the kid dressed in thrift store castoffs. Every other guest was dressed for the occasion, most in this seasons fashion, even the kids. The name stated Kiriyenko who was an invited guest, with everything checked out, the kid entered unchaperoned. On the sidewalk, the State Security Officer waited until the his charge was out of view, then went to join his partner in the car.

The Ambassadors wife, dressed in a new Donna Karan cocktail dress, looked underdressed in the grand reception hall of the official residence. Laughing politely at the Press Secretary's joke, she excused herself to greet the one guest whose acceptance genuinely surprised her, or rather whose guardians acceptance had surprised her. The boy had been seen only in the presence of his father and guards since the school incident.

"Welcome to my home, Sasha." It was the first genuine smile on the woman's face since she started in hostess mode.

"Thank you for inviting me. This place is like Wow and that's from a guy who's played hide and seek in the state rooms in the Kremlin." The guest did not add, it had been been with the daughter of the new president, who was learning how to have fun away from the total control of her overbearing mother and elder sister.

"That's quite a wow in itself. I may suggest a game here after I have drunk just enough champagne not to care about protocol and decorum."

Alex smiled at the woman's sense of fun was not completely buried under her icy exterior, he had not warmed to her when she had invited herself to spy on him in September. "Well, I'm game for anything after a few vodkas." The teenagers watched the colour drain from the woman's face. He then swore "shit, does everyone know about school, them?"

"Well, I was stupid enough to snoop the official file on you, hoping to reconnect you with family or friends stateside. Never expecting to discovered about such depravity in a school with such a good reputation."

Alex shrugged and added, "my uncle always thought fee paying schools were dodgy. Hell, the school here was tame in comparison with my one stint at boarding school. That's where I met Dima. School run by real psychos, which also had a stellar reputation for great results, not academic, but the production of Stepford-perfect kids for parents who could not give a shit." Bad memories caused him to shudder, knowing Blunt had captured Julius was not helping. Genetics were on his and Dima's side as Grief had been a measly 1.65m tall. Alex was two centimetres over that now and still had growing to do, as Ian had been 1.76m tall and John Rider 1.81m tall. Dima was now 1.76m tall having had his growth spurt over the summer and he was already shaving regularly. The ex spy's voice had yet to break. He sourly thought on his cache as Blunt's weapon had been his youthful appearance, he could not wait to be tall, overtly hairy and with a deep baritone, skipping the full on acne was OK though.

The guests were all the unattached embassy staff or emigres with family at home in the States. Alex was the youngest guest. So, he was sat two seats down from the hostess and flanked by two recent college graduates, who talked as if he wasn't there, both on the look out for Mr Right. He frowned and did not even poke the starter of crab cakes with its fish roe decoration, then his stomach turned at the mash potatoes and turkey covered in weirdly gelatinous home style gravy. The green beans had been smothered in creamy onion sauce and the sweet potatoes had a toasted marshmallow topping. He drank his coke and ate two heavily buttered bread rolls while he watched everyone else enjoy their food, complimenting the home style catering.

It drove home that his whole upbringing was the antithesis of normal. Christmas in Colorado last year had been supper of steak, salad and baked potato after a fun day skiing. The year before, Thai street food after a day scuba diving and the year before ramen on the way to the airport after a five day immersion in Japanese language and culture, with Ian back in Paris for work on the 27th. He could not remember ever eating turkey, even avoiding it when it had been the special school lunch the week before the holidays at Brookland. Give him sweaty cheese or ham sandwiches any day. His problem with roe had been food poisoning after trying it for the first time at the age of seven.

Pudding here would not be English style Christmas pudding or mince pies, both he actually liked when he'd eaten them at friend's houses. He already bet it would be something too sweet for his liking. He prayed it was ice cream and apple pie. Then caramel bread pudding was served to everyone else's applause, as it was the hostess' own family recipe. Alex dutifully ate every bite, then excused himself to the bathroom. Who on earth thought caramel, bread and baked custard was a good combination. He'd been put off custard for life at Brecon, where their vile yellow dessert sauce had been almost solid skin bordering on blancmange.

In the palatial bathroom, Alex was happy to barf up the only part of lunch he'd eaten. Washing his face, the cool water felt wonderful as he was too hot. He did not want to get ill, in five days they were going skiing, ice skating and enjoying their winter holiday at New Year. Time to go home and sleep off the bug. Just 24 hour flu or like the nasty cold Boris had two weeks ago. He now had thank Mrs Cooper-Brown, and hoped this was a one off invitation.

He found her stood in the main reception room by a huge glittering tree and discussing the planned entertainment programme after the exchange of gifts. The teen coughed to politely interrupt. Running through the rehearsed speech, to thank for the invitation and to admit to not feeling too hot, but he was hot, far too hot. He could not decide if he was about to barf again and then he was on the floor. A blanket around him and a cushion behind his head.

"I noticed you weren't enjoying your food. You should have stayed home if you felt unwell."

"Need to network, always keep options open, everything can change overnight." Alex noted he now had sharp stabbing stomach ache on top offer of feeling generally horrid. "Not going to be ill. Just a cold, stomach flu, nothing bad. The coffee grounds were wrong. Nothing bad is going to spoil our holiday. Paul is coming from New York, Jamie from Düsseldorf and Hugo from Amsterdam. It's good to have friends. Miss that the most. Adults here act like they care, but I can't rely on them. Everything went bad so fast in March."

"Your car is outside. Can you walk? They will take you to hospital." The two marine guards helped Alex to the waiting car, Antonin waiting by the open door looking worried.

The ill boy looked at his friend, managing to moan, "it's not an appendicitis. Can't be, we're going on holiday on Sunday."

Laying his charge along the rear seat, Antonin sighed. Sasha had the best and the worst luck in equal measure. If it evened out, he'd be fine. Was this the last swing of fate's pendulum? The Russian crossed himself and sat in the passenger seat. "To the nearest Emergency Room, ten roubles says his appendix is about to burst. I'd rather not have Boris' witch of a daughter curse us for our tardiness."


	15. Chapter 15

Life for the only child of Senator Delarosa and General Canterbury had actually worsened since his return home from France. Months of being disbelieved, ignored, belittled and threatened with military academy. In August, he had taken the bus to the New Jersey to beg a home with his estranged grandmother, who had welcomed him. There the independent old woman had showed him a new kind of parenting, not the occasional attention normally when he'd disappointed his mom and dad's non-verbal expectations or his purposeful misbehaviour. Tough love meant open discussions on hopes, goals, problems and joint projects, joy at his successes and real thought through explanations when he'd missed goals, lost his way or been less than honest. Myra Delarosa had been a single parent in the fifties, when such behaviour got her disowned by her family and ostracised in the close knit local community in Brooklyn. She had been lucky, her married lover had been secretly happy with impending parenthood and supported her moving state. In stolen moments he had doted in his daughter long after the lover's passion had cooled and reformed into a close friendship. For Joe, this new situation was decidedly more blue collar, though not breadline, a ski trip to Russia was out of the question. Paul had promised to call everyday and keep him, Tom and Cassian in the loop.

It had taken six weeks for his parents to catch on their only child had left, both were shocked at his decision to attend the public high school, retaking his freshman year. Work kept both from actually trying to repair the fractured relationship.

Pulling his grades up from a D average before Point Blanc, he was now a B grade student in regular counselling and because he was perceived as a bad boy, had achieved a weird form of popularity at Thomas Edison High. With the help of Paul's spreadsheets on goals for graduation and his grandmother's tutoring, he knew he could graduate at seventeen. He could try for a scholarship or go the tried and tested route for college after a stint in the marines, not the army so no one could accuse him of trading on daddy's reputation.

Christmas with grandma was spent helping the homeless, sick and old. At 6AM on New Years Eve he got his first transatlantic phone call. "Hey Joseph, got some shockingly bad news from Russia, we're delayed in Moscow until the 2nd, but I'm bunking with Dimitry in the Kremlin because his foster brother is in hospital recovering from an appendectomy. Had his op on Christmas Day. Pop is busy at the hospital, so us bad boys are spending our meals with the big kahuna himself, the President and his daughter. Well, Dima's dating her. Hugo and Jamie are at the resort already and have assured me it's 5 star and the snow is perfect. It's a shame Sasha will be on bed rest, but we can all organise ourselves to keep him company. Wish you were here, this place is amazing. I'll visit when I get back with the full low down. We can go through my impending emancipation. Got to love the fact my dad threw my stepmom out, I have no idea why she is still trying to secure my guardianship. I think the bitch Stomachbag was preferable. Then again, Granny is insanely overprotective, but thinks networking with other billionaires is a great way to spend my holidays."

Joe talked of his future plans not to distract Paul, but bolster him for the nasty custody battle between his stepmother, his maternal grandmother and the dark horse, his dad's half brother, who Paul actually wanted to live with as he was the only option of a semi normal life. The ex wife wanted the generous living allowance from Paul's trust. While his grandmother was out to turn Paul into the image of a society WASP snob. "In two and a half years, I'll be my own man. I never have to talk to my parents again. Grandma threatened to file charges of wilful abandonment against them when they dared mention guardianship irregularities. You are spot on about getting emancipated early. My mom is terrified of bad publicity, though dad is happy I'm no longer his problem. He even wrote that in his last email. My deposition is practically rubber stamped already. Trawl through all the past emails from your stepmom and grandmother, use every complaint and rant against them."

Dimitry then came on the open line, "we're off to the hospital to see the invalid now. He still making out he's 100% ok for skiing. His scar is so cool though. Papa tells all visitors the story of his own appendicitis when he was a conscript. Sasha has loads of extra New Year presents from everyone at the US Embassy and here at the Kremlin. Next year we should get sick to cash in on the sympathy bonus. Though it has been cool home alone. We're both eaten Sasha's stash of candy and cookies. The chef here baked a five tier gateau for New Year celebration, Paul and I have been invited. Bet we can both eat more than six portions."

...

Alex was being fed borscht from a thermos by Ola. She had sent her father home, so he could organise packing. It was New Years Day and her husband and son were off with her in laws. She was glad of the peace here. Her baby brother finally had a healthy appetite. Her super organised and connected sister had arranged for two nurses to look after both their father and brother at the ski resort. Both needing the holiday to recuperate and to restrain Sasha from escaping to ski or skate. His stitches may be out tomorrow morning, but he had already promised to take the next three weeks easy. No work, no workouts and eating extra meals to make up for the week of fasting.

"Ola, can I have your recipe. Your borscht is way better than papa's. What's different?"

"You need to grow and ferment tomatoes. I have make up jars in the summer, mixing ripe and green tomatoes, though those are just used in this winter soup. I make my own stock, sometimes chicken, sometimes beef, sometimes ham. Papa uses water with cubes or canned stock, he learned to cook out of necessity and in haste. I took over most cooking, while Tasha kept house while dad worked. All working together to be a functioning family without mother or grandmother. Mama was an orphan of the war, with no parents or siblings like your Dima." The loss still hurt, but Sasha understood, he had lost so much. All, of them tempered by pain so young, too young. "So, you work in the kitchens, do you want to be a chef?"

Alex shrugged, "I don't want to be a soldier, a spy or a politician. Chef? Maybe. I like good food. Problem is I dislike a lot of things though, it might be an impediment to success. Perfection for me is soup, salad and sandwiches. I think I'll be running a coffeehouse or lunch place, not chasing Michelin stars."

...

The hotel was luxurious, the basic triple family room booked by Boris had been upgraded to a suite next to those booked by Rudi Vries and Dieter Sprintz. Both men, played a game of gentle oneupmanship in generosity. Each day their sons inviting a Dima to share their lessons with a former Olympic coach. The fathers playing cards, discussing politics, business and the most difficult task for all of them, guiding their sons into adulthood.

Boris sipping his herbal tea, after a long steam bath and massage with these new friends this morning. Alex had slept late and came outside to relax on the veranda. The nurse then arriving with a tray of juice, yogurt, fruit and grains. His son eating two helpings to earn a smile from the stern woman. The teen had already stopped taking any painkillers, but had another two weeks on antibiotics. "The others are skiing on the green runs today, you are missing out on excellent instruction."

"I took on black runs last winter with... with the guy who used to look after me." Alex was processing loss and grief in his sessions with Maya. Time to miss Ian, Chelsea, life in London; as well as rationalising everything that had been wrong about his upbringing.

"You can talk about your past, Sasha. Between family and friends, you can trust us. You are safe. I wish I could say forever, but for now. That is why you should leave avenues of opportunities. Hateful American food, not just burgers and fries, is part of the charade you have been burdened with, but one that might keep you alive in the future." Two boys hurt in the past, both intelligent, resourceful, but resentment and silence had been beaten into Dimitry and reckless problem solving and survival insidiously programmed into Sasha. Slowly and carefully undoing years of damage. A long term project more rewarding than the politics he'd used to fill the void left after the death of his wife. Both his girls had compensated for his grief then. Second time around he was a full time, fully committed parent.


	16. Chapter 16

Sasha Kiriyenko hated change, today he was technically no longer a child, but his independence was not welcomed. He had sat his final exam the day after his fake 17th birthday. Exams taken at the International School, where he'd taken his GCSEs in 2003. Biologically he'd reached 18 in February, though officially he was barely seventeen, still stuck in legend four years after Operation Skeleton Key. Boris was moving in with Ola today, an action to cover the ex-president from any official backlash using the rouse of old age and failing health. His adopted son was heading straight to the conscription office this afternoon. His Russian residency was precarious, which could be rescinded at any moment and there was no guarantee he could serve in the military here. Dimitry had been exempt from conscription because of his chosen career as a Federal Security Officer. He had been lonely since Dimitry left last summer. Letters and phone calls weren't the same as sharing a room.

Alex did not want Federal Security to use him nor treat him as the tainted foreign asset, untrustworthy because of MI6's and the CIA's blackmail of an orphaned child. He had the option go back to America, he had a full adult passport. His Russian residency was only that, he was foreign born and raised and there was no guarantee of anything anymore. This is the limbo Jack had found herself in after the death of Ian.

The teenager's resume had several years working in the kitchens at the Kremlin, ten GCSEs, now A levels in French, German, Spanish and Russian with the expected A grades across the board and the High School Equivalency Exam taken last month. He had a belt and braces approach to his future. He wanted to belong here, even though he was not Russian. The option to study, work and live in Moscow. There was nothing in London, even the name Alex had been consigned to the past as everyone, even old friends called him Sasha. He tried hard not to be nostalgic for his former self. It was a melancholy young man who entered the conscription office. The man on reception took the offered ID card, typed in the details and frowned at the information on the screen "Presidential Exemption dated yesterday". The man stared at this boy, the alert message on screen meant this boy was not conscript material, but already under by Directorate surveillance. The well dressed and groomed seventeen year old son of Boris Kiriyenko was obviously cultured member of the Intelligentsia. His father was not a traitor. Was his son an American spy or an anti-government agitator? Such worries were above the official's pay grade and another department, he just passed the message on, "You need to see Colonel Andreyevich at the Lubyanka about your residency permit extension."

...

After being served tea, the junior officer closed the door of the large office. Alex broke the ice, "I feel I owe you guys, like for everything. You allowed me to finish school, have family. Boris, Ola, Tanya and Dima are family more than my uncle ever was. This is home. You have been wonderful to a foreign kid caught up in shitty circumstances. What can I do to pay you guys back?"

The colonel sat and drank his tea, relaxed and observing this young man, still too young for MI6 or the CIA to use as they had four years ago. "My counterparts in London disavowed you and stole your name and your past. You must thank the Americans who gave you a legal passport and a plausible background legend for you to fall back. Boris was the one who insisted a family home was payment for a child who prevented the catastrophe in Murmansk. You cannot go back to being Alexander Rider. We require no boon from you as the injured party of Sarov's foolishness nor the CIAs illegal operation in Cuba. You saved us, so we in turn did the right thing in protecting an abused child."

Alex drank his own tea. "Is my residency expired, now?"

The colonel smiled, "It is traditional to travel before college, a gap year. Explore and grow, we will be welcome here if you decide to return to work or study here. I doubt the CIA will use you. We will both see if MI6 try to recruit you again. If they do, send me a message if you wish to seek revenge." The man handed over a bus ticket to Berlin. A city familiar to Alex, he had lived there twice. "You deserve our highest honours, but actions are more relevant than trophies. Good luck, Sasha."

...

There was a slight bitterness, but issues over equating adulthood with evolving into a liar, bully and abuser had been resolved by hours talking with Ola, Boris and Maya. This morning, he had said goodbyes to his family properly, giving flowers and handmade chocolates to Ola, Tanya and Boris. The future was secure due to the Financial independence provided by a dead general with delusions of fatherhood. Ola blamed Sarov for as good as killed Vladimir, but by claiming Alex as the son of his heart he had saved the teenage spy from a future used by MI6 and the CIA. Rather than revisit friends and loved ones he'd already said goodbye to, Alex visited the grace of a boy long dead, who died in 1987, just before his 18th birthday.

The photo etched on the marble, looked remarkably like Alex. The tall imposter put his bunch of roses bought at the florists by the gate. "Hi, Vladimir. Ola says a we're alike. She talks of our spirit, longing for love and to belong, sense of mischief and soul deep scars from loneliness and neglect. I'm leaving, not like you to fight in a war, far from home, for dubious reasons. I get why you were there, I really do. I now go to live the life robbed from you by being in the wrong place at the wrong time. I get that too. I should have died in Murmansk. Your dad was done for anyway. He pissed off bad people, the people who topple governments, assassinate those who stand in their way, torture, steal, bribe, murder school kids, and bomb shipyards. He never paid for the fissile material they stole for him. Money I now have control of. For you, I shall endeavour to avoid the path of vengeance. Your inheritance is now mine. I will not squander it, I promise. Sleep well, big brother."

The bright sunshine warm sunny afternoon, the leaves in the trees cast shadows and rustled in the breeze. Blond hair blew into Alex's eyes, this was an ending and a beginning. He owed the past nothing. The dead had no hold on the present. A four year respite, had not changed his mind. At fourteen he had not wanted to be a government agent, even if his uncle had trained his nephew in skill set for espionage work from the cradle, Ian has taught him to survive. He was a survivor. Now he was going to live, hopefully a long and happy life, with his eyes open to the reality that there was no black and white.

His short term plan was to meet up with James in Switzerland then head south to Italy. To be a teenager, not a hero, Alex was happy to have passed the baton to others.

...

Edward Pleasure was a successful author, his last book on the Paul Drevin kidnapping and the wider conspiracy behind it was awaiting final approval. The young man broken by his father's betrayal and who had been the star prosecution witness against the failed space entrepreneur. Paul read the last chapter of the edited manuscript and put the printout down on the coffee table. "When I escaped my kidnappers, I sought you out. You asked nothing of me, but told me the story of a friend of your daughter's in exile. Explaining how he healed after being kidnapped, like me he had lost trust in the world and I took your advice to talk, rebuild a relationship with my family, as my mother and grandmother were not part of my father's sick schemes. I am stronger and healthier now. You gave me a list of questions to make me aware of repercussions of my involvement in your book. You wanted me to be aware you would be brutally honest in your assessment of Nikolai Drevin's criminal psychology."

The pale, dark haired eighteen year old took a sip of water. "I like your style of writing, abrupt and with no sympathy for your subject or sentimentality to soften the reality of his evil deeds. What I find amusing is that my father has no rights to stay in the US once he completes his sentence and Russia have started extradition proceedings for further prosecution. The courts have safeguarded his remaining assets for me. Helping you write this book has been cathartic and may lead to further charges of terrorism and murder. I applaud the fact you are scathing of the CIA and FBI as well."

Edward had an odd correspondence with Sasha, who had offered advice based on his own recovery from four months in operations, "The undercover operative used you, put you in danger and blackmailed a child to stop your father, saving thousands does not stop their actions being morally repugnant."

"Tamara Knight was quite hot though, even though she was screwing my father at the time. You missed that out of your book, damn you and your excuse it's hearsay."

The guest picked up the postcard on Edward's desk, depicting the Berlin wall and read the brief message, "Hey, Ed, standing where Checkpoint Charlie used to be. Coming in from the cold and off to the land of Cuckoo Clocks. No lost uranium, murdered deep cover agents, attempted coups or the grisly demise of the evil masterminds with teenagers in tow. Absolutely no spooky business involved. From Russia with Love, Sasha."


	17. Chapter 17

James was repeating the guide book again, word for word, as if talking nonstop was his only way to deal with his bad dose of doomed love. Alex gave the impression of drinking in every word and being engrossed in the spectacular architecture and leaned over to kiss his friend on the mouth, assured his strange behaviour was a foolish attempt to hide his crush. The German soon got over his shock and showed Alex how to kiss. It was early enough that they were alone in this secluded piazza in Sienna. Alex smiled as the snog broke, and he moved to lead his love interest a waltz around the square.

The pair walked arm in arm to the cafe for breakfast, two boys who could afford five star luxury were backpacking and sleeping in two star hotels, which was a step up from hostels, and offered for more privacy. This was a real experience of a gap year not the splendid isolation of life in their parent's protective bubble.

Coffee and pastries ordered, Alex knew Jamie was confused. "It's not a secret that I have trust issues. I trust you. I know you like me, I've been waiting for you to make your move since Switzerland. What do you want? Sex, that's ok. A relationship, that's ok too. I like you too. I guess you have the same hangups as me. We promised no secrets. If you'd asked me I'd have told you that I will dare people I connect too. It's just that list is very short and most of the people on it are guys into girls. I have no preference. It's just girls expect the truth and nearly everything about me is a lie."

Dark blue intense eyes drank in the sight of the unattainable that was now his. Since that first holiday, when he reconnected with his hero, who was frail and convalescing and protected by Dimitry acting as concerned older brother had grown a pair to boss even Paul around. "Sasha... after that kiss, we are dating. Think how compatible we are, as we've have been cohabiting for nearly a month. No more twin beds. Can we skip the tourist thing, now? Let's head straight for the villa near Sorrento." The security guards tailing them 24/7 cramped his style and even he noticed their pitiful attempts of blending in as tourist. "Sit back and enjoy just us for a few weeks there and then we can consider what's next on our life plan."

The first positive tick on Alex's life goals list and one that had been the least likely to attain: trusting someone, anyone, enough to get laid. "Nice use of 'us' and 'our' there. Fine, to Sorrento and the start of togetherness and all that."

...

Mentally compiling another list, days after arriving in a Sorrento, was better than sitting back on his laurels and thinking life was perfect. It was pretty close, though. Now, Alex had a lot to lose, so needed to keep up with staying alert, prepared and focused on fighting his corner. Morning routine had not changed for the blond new arrival at the Sprintz villa. It was obvious that Dieter Sprintz paid for his security and his household staff to be discrete. Even so, the boyfriend of their boss' son made himself known. Talked to the security of Jamie's plans and the best way to be safe and unpredictable. Cooking for his lover had delighted Jamie, who adored brunch in bed. The eighteen year old sleeping in the junior suite slept late, whereas his guest rose early.

Alex had worked very hard over the last year, not all academic study, also survival skills of a specialist kind from the members of the presidential guard who had spent years in black ops and undercover. Building on the tricks of the trade learnt from Ian and the SAS. The teenager hoped he never needed to use this knowledge, but once Dima left for Officer training, the regime in Moscow had became a whole new ballgame. The best offence was a good defence. Even after leaving home, Five until nine every morning was a varied routine for optimum physical fitness and honing of skills. Then breakfast and entertaining Jamie for the rest of the day, evening and night. The seclusion meant both of the villa's occupants could sunbathe and swim in the nude. Jamie was a bit more prudent about sex, which was under the cover of the veranda and inside when the staff had left and always in the bedroom or bathroom with the door locked when the cleaner and housekeeper were working.

The head of security was a former Interpol officer, who arrived early to sort out the schedules as they were a man down. Mario had unexpectedly quit. Each would have to manage an additional half shift to tide them over. Inconvenient but the extra pay and holiday accrued would be welcomed. Luckily the kid and his bedwarmer were both homebodies, too busy fucking to need close protection detail. Looking over the cctv, the blond yank was fastidiously fit. Luckily they did not have to tail and keep pace with him, just watch over sleeping beauty. Even when the German had been training, he'd never endured such mammoth runs. He got the feeling this teenager was scoping out both the locality, the Villa and the security setup. He was imagining things, like Herr Sprintz's son, Sasha has just left school, it was his brother Dimitry who was working for Russian a Security Services. Though there had been a rumour of the British and the Yanks using kids a few years back. All gossip, he himself had passed himself off as college age when on intelligence operations.

Showering downstairs, Alex knew the routine of the household, which ran like clockwork. Alex was eager to learn everything from Maria, who was here every morning, and cooked meals for the security staff when one of the Sprintz's or their guests were here. The cleaner due at 9:30 three days a week. As he finished dressing, he knew the housekeeper would be laying out the China and utensils on the breakfast tray, using the fruit already prepared, and bread and pastries she bought on they way in, then he would prepare eggs, hot milk and coffee, always including enough for the cleaner and housekeeper as well.

Dressed in loose clothes, he silently worked. With the tray laden with this late breakfast, Alex took the newspapers and post upstairs; thankful that Jamie ate first before taking care of his carnal needs.

...

Maria sat down and poured herself a glass of grappa to accompany her coffee at the mid morning break, "I have complained to Dieter about his son's laziness for years, so the spoiled layabout sweet talks an angel who cooks, tidies up, does both their laundry. James gets all the bad habits from his bitch of a mother, with a father who works all the time and makes excuses that his son has problems. The boy was lazy and rude before his mother left or that funny business with the school in France. I should not complain, my sons are as bad, expecting me to wait on them when I go home. At least I get paid for my hours here."

The cleaner shrugged, less work was fine with her as the other villas she cleaned were rentals and there she earned every cent to deal with hoards of holidaying foreigners. The teenagers here were angels compared to those who partied nonstop. "You need to see the house two streets over, the shits fuck everywhere, even when I'm there. No shame, no modesty, no morals. The boys upstairs are in love, not bed hopping and jumping everything that moves, nor drinking to excess and throwing wild parties. Those damned animals there are as rich and will never have to work a day in their lives. Jamie's father taught him that love was the most important thing. So, it's a boy. Both the same age and very private, it harms no one. I've seen much worse in most boys the same age. Much much worse."

...

Mario had won the lottery and returned home to his mother's family home of Catalina. He sat in the bar and talked of working in Germany, with visits to New York, Moscow, Switzerland and Sorrento. His cousin ordered a round of brandies and asked bland questions about working abroad. The former security guard spoke German, French, English and Russian, and had been invalided out of the Italian police in the mid 90s after being shot in the chest. His modest pension had been saved, but now he could afford a house with a garden and sea view. Another round of drinks and he mentioned his former employer was Dieter Sprintz, the billionaire. The man then spoke of the son staying at the villa, those he worked with and the good food provided by the housekeeper, Maria. Missing her cooking and the fact she was happily married. The conversation strayed to his failed marriage and information about his work back with the police and his hometown of Milan.

His cousin Gino had the mask of friendly interest knowing the man thought of him as a kindred soul because he had briefly been a paratrooper. His skills and service record had seen him headhunted for training at Malagosto, missing out because of its enforced closure after 9/11. The Grimaldi's had employed him until they had been liquidated the next year. As a freelance specialist he had found work with the local families, who kept within their business empires, keen to keep off competition from Russian mafia and the Triads and stay clear of the hard line from Interpol and government agencies with zero tolerance for terrorist threats. He was eager to make his name and to go from mere contract employee to the big league. The information he possessed offered easy money from the reclusive German banker, whose only child was guarded by two to three soft, fat and complacent guards.


	18. Chapter 18

With Sasha busy in the kitchen, James Skyped his father. Dieter answered promptly and looked the usual mix of tired and concerned "everything OK, Jamie?"

"Well, apart from to tell you to come here for a rest, 'cause you look tired, Dad. I need dating advice and I can't ask the guys because Dimitry will find out and well, I can do without that shovel talk, thank you very much." The eighteen year old settled back on the sofa and sipped the glass of wine Sasha had just brought in. "It's complicated. I think, in fact I know I'm in love. How can you know it's reciprocated? Sasha is perfect. You'll know from your security team that we're sharing a bed and yes, we are sexually actively. Boy oh boy, it's a whole different deal when it's not just casual. Sasha hasn't dated before, but... you know about the past, that he was 'groomed' by a sexual predator. How do I know he loves me back?"

Dieter smiled as the security logs had been very detailed, and he trusted his long term security to ensure that no one was taking advantage of his son. His own impressions of Sasha had suggested the lonely ex-spy was asexual, but Jamie himself had stated it was a problem of trust and his checkered past had kept the young man from reaching out until he was 110% sure he would not be rejected.

His son had trusted him two years ago, when he came out. His crush was confessed later. Jamie had been miserable with the thought he would have to settle with being friends, never lovers. "He trusts you. Never break that trust and you have a life partner. Be honest and ask for commitment. You are still too young for rings or ceremonies. Marriage is becoming acceptable. Something to aim for. Even children in ten or so years, born through a surrogate. It is not like when I was your age. You can be open. You have nothing to hide, but talk your fears over with your lover not me and maybe it's time you told your mother you are gay."

Jamie scowled, "Like she wants anything to do with me! I'll go one better and plan a visit to East Kilbride and break the news to granny. The whole family will know in five seconds flat. Maybe I'll be cool enough to be Blythe McCudden's son then. She hangs out with Elton John, a gay son with be added brownie points to her social circle. Yeah, I'll book us flights to Glasgow after I OK with Granny about bringing a guest."

...

Having known Jamie for four years, he knew he preferred simple meals. No complex sauces, no amuse bouche, vapours or any tricks of haute cuisine. Salad, steak and baked potato and cafe granita with thin almond biscuits for dessert. Ola's opinion was the way to a guy's heart was by feeding both body and the soul. He sat and sipped his glass of water. It was hilarious that he could drink vodka like he was Russian born, tolerated champagne and hated wine and beer.

"Get Maria to buy some vodka, baby. You always had vodka at home." Jamie wanted everything perfect, a real home from home for Sasha.

"Not always, just special occasions. You and your father visiting was always a special occasion." The chef cut into his baked potato, "how about I make pizza tomorrow, with lots of onions and olives."

Pizza was something all the guys liked, but both Dieter and Boris detested "I don't think that oven outside has ever been used. Can I help?"

Alex smirked, "sure, how's your dad? Did you persuade him to come for a holiday?"

"No, got sidetracked as usual. So, normally Gran visits us here in July, only she's not booked this year. How about we go visit her?"

Alex vaguely remembered a granny from past conversations and guesse dit wa the German side of the family, "In Düsseldorf?"

"No, mum's mum. She lives near Glasgow. Her place is cosy. It's ages since I've been. Don't worry she's nothing like mum. In fact, Margaret McCudden is the only person alive to call mum a selfish bitch to her face after running off with that director and leaving me with Dad. I think you'll trust her. She would level mountains and drain seas for me." Jamie cut up his steak into neat strips, "Family, well the family I talk to, are important."

What little Alex knew about his boyfriend's estranged mother was from gossip magazines not the Sprintz's, who barely mentioned the woman. What he could recall was she had left home at fifteen to live in London, finding fame as a punk era model, ex girlfriend of some guitarist, married to Dieter circa 1983 and divorced in 1990 just before he made a mint during the market crash of 1991, when the man moved back to a Germany with full custody of his son. Blythe had never bothered with regular visitation rights. Her career since had been co-star in several questionable films and tv series. Since the mid nineties she was better known for her cosmetics range and her work as model and muse for the famous Postmodernist portrait painter, whose name Alex could not remember.

Then the teenager had the light bulb moment of the significance of this visit, "So I'm off to get family approval. Holy crap, Jamie darling. This means it's official, big league, next stop getting a flat together! Right, you know my family already thinks you're great. Dimitry might need some help with us cohabiting, but he's a big boy. I have explained about being bisexual but really mostly gay, though he thought I was trying to cheer him up after refusing to go on any dates with either gender. First up, forget about anniversaries being important. Crock of shit, though it's weird that both my birthdays, actual and official are celebrated. Let's cut that to just the one in my passport not to confuse those not in the know about all things spooky. If, sorry when, we get our married better arrange it on New Years Eve, OK or a full on hippy affair at Stonehenge at midsummer. That would freak everyone out."

"Not my mother, she'd love it." The German finished his meal then got up to stop his lover tidying up. "We have staff, they are paid well. Let's go outside and star gaze."

...

The afternoon was hot and humid, the forecast of thunderstorms later. Alex swam lengths at a leisurely pace, he loved the fact the villa had a 25metre pool built for swimming not just lazing about. Dieter must be a keen swimmer, because Jamie definitely wasn't. The guest swimmer could not complain about his lover though, he had plenty of stamina for carnal pursuits. The German preferred using the indoor gym for cycle, rowing and ski machines. From virgin to working his way though the illustrated book of gay sex, mail ordered when they arrived here and now fast becoming both teens favourite read. The porn collection in Jamie's wardrobe forgotten as actuality was better than fantasy. Alex had always found both magazines, online and movie porn not his thing, preferring novels for its grounding in reality and the complexity of relationships not just sex itself. Close to his limit in the sun, the ex-spy noted the new arrival in an awful suit, shirt and tie combo. Dark brown pinstripe, beige check and blue diagonal stripes screamed low level mafia thug. Surviving black ops undercover work and assassination attempts had taught the London born young man to trust his instincts. He would warn Jamie to expect trouble.

...

Gino stood to attention as he greeted his new boss with a parade ground salute. Herr Brock, who mirrored the stiff formal greeting with a stiff nod then motioning for the agency replacement to sit, while not taking his eyes off the man. "It's a simple set up here. The primary goal is watching over Herr Sprintz's son." The man droned on about the staff, their schedules, the cctv, alarm, motion detectors, flood lights and the security team's strengths and weaknesses. Luckily, Gino had enough genuine agency work to bulk out a kosher CV. The job a shoe in with Mario's glowing reference. Playing nursemaid to the rich and famous was his least favourite way of paying the bills. Unlike other clients, Dieter Sprintz was reclusive and very low profile, unlike his ex-wife. There were no paparazzi photos of the man's son. On arrival, he had seen the teenager in the pool and taken a few shots with a hidden camera. Blond, fit, lithe and looking every inch an gullible kid having grown up cosseted in a very protected bubble. At no time during the briefing was the boyfriend also living here mentioned or the location of the panic room. Brock wanted to see how observant this former paratrooper was, because James Sprintz did not often leave his room between 10PM and 11AM. He doubted the weekday night shift guard would ever lay eyes on their client's only child. As agency, the man had no need to enter the villa except in the direst of circumstances as laid out in his detailed shift guidelines and operations manual. At the moment no drills were planned, nor any need to supervise the night shift on site, as no threats were in this locality and the risk of trouble assessed as extremely low.


	19. Chapter 19

There was no active or passive surveillance in the two main bedroom suites at the villa. There were cameras trained on the exterior windows, but the blinds were drawn. The lights were out when Gino returned to start his first shift at ten. The log stated JS in his bedroom at 9:55PM. Further down the page it stated the teenager got up at 11:20 to exercised indoors until 12:45. Lunch on the terrace, stayed outdoors until 8PM went inside for dinner. The previous four days were similar to within minutes. No excursions, no late nights, but sleeping late. The security guard could hear the music from a neighbouring villa. No partying for the Sprintz heir. The man then checked the refrigerator to see supper and two snacks from the housekeeper. There was a top of the range microwave, coffee maker and a water cooler here for the man watching the CCTV and performing perimeter checks at 45 minute intervals. Gino went to check the doors and garage, taking the master keys with him. His plan was going without a hitch. In the garage were two cars, a BMW sports car and a Mercedes limo. By the rear wall were two bikes. Basic tool kit and maintenance kits on a shelving unit. The car keys nowhere to be seen. The spares in the security office, maybe the kid had a set too.

The two lovers lay next to each other. The dark haired eighteen year old pondered his lover's honed survival instinct about the new security guard. Their laptop had hacked into the security feed as they watched the stranger walk through the garage and let himself into the kitchen, breaking protocol. In softly whispered German "looks like you're right, beautiful. If he comes upstairs the door is locked and there is a panic room in dad's office."

There was no self righteous smile at being right crossing the younger teen's face, he murmured back, "not accessible from here. Last line of defence planned for the security alerting us if danger, not for an inside job." He rolled over and kissed his lover softly. "That man has only seen me. He only expects one occupant. If he comes into this room, you need to keep out of sight. He is armed and I am trained to disarm. Hell, Jamie darling, the presidential guard taught me how to kill with my bare hands. My uncle taught me to mimic, to lie, to survive. This bastard will think only of the stereotype a pampered kid not the world weary ex black ops hardened master spy. I got this. If he finds two of us, he'll kill the spare, which in his mind is you. Please, you must hide if he comes up the stairs. Knowing the trap is there is the best way to avoid it. He's just some trumped up hood wanting to appear big league or get rich quick." He moved to reassure the real target, knowing the anguish this inevitability was causing Jamie. Not the time to confess that he would die to keep his beloved safe, yet he would. Looking into his lover's eyes he knew Jamie was thinking the same. If the situation wasn't so dire, he knew that this was the real thing. They kissed again, slow and passionately, both aware this could possibly be their last moments together, alive. One eye on the video showed the garage door was open, not just one opponent, the odds of survival were shortening. Then the screen went black, no CCTV, checking the computer there was no internet, the landline phone was dead and there was no mobile signal. "Game on, my love. Use the connecting door to hide in your dad's bedroom.

...

Karl Brock was woken at 2AM by the alarm from the villa, signalling the panic room had been locked. He rolled over, assuming the young lovers were christening the basic accommodations as some sort of role play. No other alarms had been triggered and the night duty guard nor the local police had not phoned, so everything was OK.

...

Maria arrived early, thankful the young guest had alerted her that there was his mess to tidy up in the kitchen and dining room, as James insisted he have the night off. On walking up the driveway, something was very wrong. The gates were open, so was the garage but the two cars were still parked. The day shift operative was not in his office by the gates. He came running from the house, "please sit in my car. There is a problem and Herr Brock is on his way over. I had to run to the intersection for my mobile to work. The phone lines are out. Once the boss is here, I'll get you a coffee."

The grim faced German punched in the override codes for the panic room. Inside James Sprintz had dried tears and snot smears on his face. "The new guy and two others took Sasha. They were after me. If one hair on Sasha's head is harmed, you'll need to so Ed your life running from his brother Dimitry. Then again, so will I."

It was the worst day of his life, he started to weep and shake, as anger and hate fed his despair. He needed to talk to his father before the security team covered up their mistakes.

...

Dieter had just finished speaking to his distraught son when his computer stated his son was wanting to video chat again. This was likely to be the kidnappers. The man had already decided to pay the ransom, for the sake of Jamie. Once again, the strange boy had saved his son. Accepting the call, The image on his computer showed a dark warehouse interior and two masked men. The ruse was the handcuffed, blindfolded and gagged security guard who had masterminded this evil and the large masked criminal gripping the blond hair of the teenager they had abducted to give a clear image of the slack, unresponsive face; the proof he was bruised, drugged and unconscious. No audio, just a note onscreen with the message €10 million for your son's safe return. Then the message went blank. No sign of Sasha being alive, no proof of life. He texted his son's phone, not to use his Skype account again. He then phoned down for his car. The business jet was waiting to take him to Italy.

...

Alex woke laid in the recovery position on a hard, narrow camp bed. His mouth dry and his head pounding. He did not open his eyes or make any outward appearance he was conscious, but he carefully listened to see if he was alone. His face ached and his arms were bruised, evidence of his brief struggle after landing a hit on the masked invader who had unlocked Jamie's bedroom door. He had played the part of untrained patsy, now the gloves were off, no quarter given. After three years consolidation, he was a strong talented, trained and honed survivor. The teenager could make out a soft, slightly muffled conversation in Russian.

The nasally whine of a man with head cold droned on"You're an idiot, the kid should have been awake for the ransom demand not dead to the world. The chloroform was enough, just because he socked you one, you had to feed him that mix of sleeping tablets. If you kill him, we'll get nothing. The German will demand proof of life, his son pleading for his life."

The reply was deeper, guttural and obviously annoyed at being reprimanded, "we just hack off a finger or an ear and send it to the rich bastard."

"So you have a death wish. It's a quick get rich scheme, not an excuse for you to make the same mistakes as you did in Baku. Dead hostages make us wanted criminals, the pigs don't care if it's an accidental overdose. Our deal is €15,000 for four days babysitting. We can get the reward for grassing on that creep Gino. Just play it cool, Babushka. The kid has to be healthy and undamaged, OK. His father may spend ten million to get his son back. Damaged, well he might spent the same to put us all in shallow graves."

The trigger happy accomplice sighed, "it was easier when we were green conscripts. No one cared when civilians were caught in the crossfire in Afghanistan. God, to think the Yanks are now knee deep in that shithole. Serves them right after funding the extremists in the first place."

The conversation moved back into talk of past adventures for two hired in muscle with no loyalty to the mastermind behind this farce. Alex now has time to reflect that his family would be upset, afraid and worried, if Dieter let them know. There was no if, Jamie's dad would have been told Boris as soon as the ransom demand had been made. The teenager had better live through this or the last four years had been were for nothing.


	20. Chapter 20

Alex never prayed or really thought there was such a thing as a divine influence, even the idea of luck was an anathema. He trained, both physically and with puzzles and games, because a body at the peak of physical fitness and an alert mind kept you alive, stopped you panicking, helped you adapt. It was a chore not to succumb to boredom when trapped in an warehouse unit somewhere in Naples, where his legend was to pretend to be Jamie, well the version of Jamie these fools expected. Sure their expected abductee spent a lot of time in his room, but that was where his boyfriend preferred to exercise. Inheriting his mother's Scottish genetics of extreme paleness, meant sun equalled going bright red, then freckly; never a golden tan. Pretending to sleep allowed Alex to slyly observe his prison, his captors and their by numbers plan, because they were so going down, especially Gino. The guy was off collecting the untraceable bonds Dieter was using as a trade and the Russians were pissed that they were not getting a bonus for a job well done and to keep their mouths shut.

A wave of homesickness welled up. Missing everyone and everything including the sour faced head custodian, who played chess like a demon. When he got out of here he was going to cook several of Ola's favourites and drink Lipton's yellow label tea laced with plum jam. Shame good home made vodka was something he could not procure here. The London born exile has clung to his family's insistence he had a Russian soul, he was going to cultivate it in exile. No point in sticking to Ian's code of conduct of blending in, he'd concluded that after three months in Russia.

Two days of being fed a couple of stale ration bars and warm bottles of water and a bucket for ablutions was pretty grim. The pair of monkeys hired to watch him must be seriously sleep deprived themselves or high on Benzedrine. He wouldn't say no to some chemical stimulants at the moment as Alex craved a decent coffee. The drug they had originally doped him up with had left him dizzy, nauseous and feverish. The two times he had fallen asleep he had been haunted by dreams of drowning, Sarov's blood and brains on his face, multiple Griefs intent on slow dissection and the deadly embrace of Sayle's many tenticked pet.

Like his hero Houdini, his lock-picks were concealed in the hem of his Joggers in preparation for his moment to escape. Ultimate proof of the half arsed frisking done when he'd been drugged senseless. He knew from looking out through the narrow gaps around the access, that this false room was constructed in the rear of a windowless unit with only one exit.

Such sloppiness annoyed him. Trained to think things through by a master of political manoeuvring, the abduction was a half baked plan from start to finish. He'd been quiet and respectful to the Russian pair of grumbling minions, who's own plan was to double cross the Italian for his inside job anyway. Rather than act instinctively, he followed the survival tactics taught in Moscow, he was letting events play out and only show his superiority, if threatened.

...

As the private business jet descended to the small private airstrip, Dieter had finalised the rental of an isolated villa with a fine view of Capri. His house was tainted with violence and was now up for sale. He had seen the pictures of the blood stained floor of his son's bedroom, where they had planned to take his son and had abducted a dear friend. Twice over he owed Sasha. There was no doubt the young hero had put himself in danger to save Jamie from that fate. Fully aware he was better trained to cope with such deprivations.

Jamie's dad was also an expert in playing games. Fools thought it was just on the markets and in currency trading. The German and Rudi Vries practised the slow path of revenge. Their weapons of choice were lawyers and financial ruin. His ex wife had tried to renege on the court agreed child support, as at the time of their quick divorce she had been the ruled the guilty party for her adultery and on paper the main breadwinner. The fifteen hundred pounds a month for her son was seen as an unneeded expense after Dieter worked like a demon, gambled everything on the short trading against sterling on Black Wednesday becoming extremely rich. In hindsight such penny pinching had hurt Jamie, who did not see his mother for two years as the litigation ground on through the courts, ending with the backlog of unpaid debt and all Dieter's legal fees to be paid by his ex wife, whose own career had all but stalled after she had been vilified in the press.

His son was pragmatic about it all now, putting blame where it was due as it had been Blythe who had erred as her behaviour then had destroyed any trust between mother and son. The erratic visits had continued and were a result of her habit of only seeking out Jamie when it suited her with no adherence to an agreed timetable of frequent visits disregarding fundamentals of child psychology. Jamie was planning on studying psychology, as he planned a career as a health professional. The financier had a good relationship with Blythe's mother. Jean had been a stable mother figure tohis son, who had helped over those difficult teenage years.

Dieter's car travelled into Naples, to a small bar. He had profited greatly by taking risks. His world was not one of pure theory of moving money with eyes only on the worldwide markets. Clients came in all forms and this meant he had crossed paths with individuals who business empires were based in the murky world of criminal enterprise. He knew precisely who's was in control of the underworld in the Sorrento area. Whoever had kidnapped Sasha had done so without Don Leonardo Rizzini's knowledge. The German financier was going to pay his respects and dig the grave of the misguided individuals who had failed to respect the local families.

The TV was tuned to the local news channel, currently discussing local initiatives to boost the tourist economy. The barman saw the business man arrive, not a local and definitely not a tourist dressed in a bespoke English tailored suit and Oxford brogues. The man cheated his thought and asked in accented Italian "excuse me, is it possible to book an appointment with The honourable Don Rizzini. Here is my business card. It's been a few years since we last conducted business."

He sat by the bar and watched the news while the man disappeared into the back room. The barman then showed him into the small private room. There were four men acting as guards while their boss was enjoying a late lunch. The head of the Naples crime syndicate, stood to shake Dieter's hand. "You honour me, Herr Sprintz. Please join me for a glass of wine from my estate. I have you to thank for my expansion into wineries and the service sector across Europe, all based on your helpful advice. I owe you a great deal as I have profited greatly, both financially and personally."

The German smiled and then sipped the offered light and fruity red wine. "The reason behind my visit is my son's friend is being held for ransom. Sasha was taken from my villa two days ago. They think it's my son that they hold. In my briefcase I have untraceable bonds. I fear this evil has been conducted here without your approval. I do not wish to hurt our cordial relationship by paying off these bastards and you finding out afterwards. There is a rather unfortunate complication, the boy they took is Aleksandr Kiriyenko, the son of the former president of the Russian Federation. I wish for this to be resolve successfully without their security apparatus being involved. Things could get very nasty, they are not known for mercy nor have they a reputation for subtlety."

...

The hostage was laid on the bed, his back to the only access. Gino could barely see the rise and fall of the teenager's chest as he entered the boarded off cell. The abductor looked at the lithe young man and knew he had no time for sating his desires. He had to get to his waiting boat and adhere to the carefully planned getaway route: Morocco via Spain. To a life of luxury, no longer following orders, with a new identity. As many young lovers as he wanted, this one was not worth jeopardising his timetable. The bonds in the car, no witnesses here late on a Saturday evening. Drop the kid off near the main road north as a false trail. The kid was boneless as he lifted him, as soon as they exited the room an elbow connected with his nose. Rather than falling in a heap, the supposedly drugged kid flipped himself gracefully and was stood on the balls of his feet in a fighting stance. Two fists connected with the surprised and dazed abductor and then a well placed kick to the head, and the victim was victorious and his abductor was unconscious on the floor, bloody and bruised. Alex smiled at picking the perfect moment to kick Gino's arse.


	21. Chapter 21

Dieter's driver relayed the exact position for the ransom pickup point. The dark alley was under observation as the only visitor was photographed on his way back to his car and then discretely followed across town to a deserted industrial estate. Two figures dressed in black, crept closer to the only occupied unit, their weapons drawn. One entered the unit with his partner providing cover to be surprised that the teenager was handcuffing their prey. His gin vanished and his balaclava was removed. The lead recognised the young man and softly introduced himself, his hands in view, empty, spread wide with no possible threat, "Aleksandr, we have come to apprehend your abductor. I am Tony and my friend outside is Gianni. We work for a friend of Herr Sprintz. We have a car. If you want we can take you to the villa rented by Herr Sprintz or I can give you the address. I am happy to help now you have done our job and overpowered the man we were sent to bring in for questioning."

Alex processed this change of events, taking in the very unofficial rescue party. Alex guessed loosing 10% of the ransom as a reward to some very stealthy professionally was better than handing it all over with no guarantee of the hostage making it out alive now the critical 24 hour period had passed. "Thanks. I guess you guys are taking care if everything here. I need a decent meal, a bath and another holiday to get over this one." Dieter had also skilfully outplaying this fool. Not surprising, you did not make billions by being a stickler for rules. He quelled his urgent need to call his papa, for proof everyone at home was fine. He bit his lip and did not ask to borrow a phone, knowing he needed to confer with Dieter over events and get their stories straight. Never lying outright, just minimising facts to a more believable scenario of having spent two days in bed eating bland food for the listener to assume a stomach bug not an abduction for ransom scenario. No missing fingers or ears to explain away. Thank you Skype for making no mutilations necessary.

The team leader was stern, highly trained and clued up professional mating note of the details. Tony watched the kid sat beside him, who had taken out an ex-paratrooper with a black ops background. This kid was obviously SPETZNAS trained, possibly even a full FSB operative. Dieter had known the kid could handle himself, more worried about upsetting the boss than the joker who was out for an easy payday. There was no traffic as they drove out of Naples, happy with the knowledge Gianni would have the joy of cleaning up and delivering their guest to his new accommodations for his re-education in manners and etiquette. Nothing as distasteful as murder, but it was certain the would be millionaire would probably never walk unassisted again.

The car journey was in silence. Alex memorised the route to a different villa. The comfort of owning a own villa was in the past for the Sprintz's. Maybe temporary, but Jamie was grown up and the kidnapping was the spur to change ingrained habits. From the main highway, to a steep side road and then through a sharp turn into a recessed access. The gate slid closed behind them, cameras recording all visitors and deliveries. Steep terrain to deter trespassers. The drive and the house were brightly lit up, automatically as the gate was opened, suggesting a system of sophisticated timers, security lights and motion detectors. The driver did not stop, just turned around to return to complete his task back in Naples.

Alex was bone tried, filthy and ravenously hungry as he walked up to the door, before reaching the threshold, Jamie flung open the door and hugged him. His lover looking equally as tired and smelling as funky. This kiss was awful and wonderful, as dental hygiene was an issue. Alex was the first to break intimate contact, knowing Dieter was watching and he could not help but blush in embarrassment.

Dieter looked at the visibly exhausted boy, dying up the bruises and abrasions on his face and arms. "Come inside, we have soup and tea ready. Maria made her hearty lentil soup especially for you. You look half starved."

Alex smiled as he held his boyfriend's hand in a sure and firm grip, "Yeah, lets eat. Then a shower and then a bath, for you too, Jamie. Days without washing is too rank for words."

...

The rental was over the top luxurious, with Carrara marble in abundance matched with gold leaf adorned baroque decoration. Jamie had yet to sleep in his assigned room and the bathroom had a view out to sea. Alex opened the doors onto the sun deck and ran the bath with the sea breeze wafting in and the stars on view as he lit candles and switched off the overhead light. Carefully bagging his clothes. He would never wear them again. His ceramic lock picks already safe on the left hand side of the bed. A secret birthday present for the President himself, who had been a spy in the early eighties, when the Cold War made Berlin a silent battleground. He then showered off the days of sweat and grime, before joining Jamie in the large tub. His boyfriend had showered, while the starved returning hero had eaten his soup and drunk four cups of tea. Telling Maria in detail about the mid 19th century antique tea glasses he had bought for Ola at New Year. Sold for the scrap silver value, as they were English not Russian made. He'd been babbling, nervous as each spoonful imbibed was watched by both his boyfriend's father and the eager housekeeper, mothering her charges 24/7 since his abduction.

The warm water soothed his tired body as much as his full belly. Too tired to even contemplate makeup sex. "Darling Jamie, it's 3AM and I'm completely and utterly knackered. So, we go to bed and sleep, but whoever wakes first blows the other. I can't guarantee it will be me this time, cause I need eight good hours and I can't seem to sleep peacefully alone anymore."

Jamie kissed Alex on the neck. "It's been awful alone, crippled with worry. Let's find out if the bed is as fabulous as it looks. I bet it will be past noon before anyone wakes today. Dad was tempted to start smoking again yesterday."

...

Dieter knocked gently on the door of his son's bedroom at 10AM, to announce the arrival of the doctor to examine their guest for injuries and psychological trauma. It was Alex who opened the door holding a pillow to mask his nakedness. "Morning, Dieter. I didn't know where my stuff is, otherwise I'd not have been in my birthday suit."

"Sorry to wake you, but I have arranged for a doctor to make sure you're OK. Dr. Sincella will be here in a minute. I'll go get you a robe from my room."

Sitting in the drawing room, feeling chilled to his bones, Alex sipped his tea and grimaced as any habitual tea drinker did when served a less than perfect brew. In walked a petite woman in her mid thirties with expertly dyed blond hair and wearing a pair of Chanel sunglasses and carrying a large case. It opened to reveal a tightly packed well ordered set of instruments and medical supplies. She put her shades down and pulled on gloves and an apron to protect her designer dress. She handed Alex a gown. " good morning Sasha, the gown is for the illusion of modesty, do not tie it at the back. This will be a full medical. Your father is bringing the scales from his bathroom. Please stand by the wall and I will measure your height to start. I guess you are 1.78m?"

Alex nodded, wondering about this American woman with the air of a top consultant and not correcting her assumption Dieter was his dad.

She turned around as her patient pulled off the robe and put on the brightly patterned hospital issue gown. "I am a paediatric consultant, I work in the American Hospital in Naples and I trained at John Hopkins Hospital in America. I am also a cousin of Maria. So let's confirm your details, I have your date of birth as June 13th 1987, Los Angeles. Appendicitis three and a half years ago. No complications. Until recently you have been seeing a therapist regularly. Keep that up, you may think your OK about your adventure. Best to have a belt and braces approach to mental health. Eat well, regular exercise and talk about what happened to your family, your friends and the therapist." With a tape, she measured his height and wrote down the results. Dieter knocked on the door and left the scales.

Alex kept to one word answers as she made note of every bruise and scrape from his unexpected adventure. Better word than ordeal, abduction or kidnapping; though it was a shit poor experience all round. The final torture was when a full set of blood and urine samples was needed. The gown was a gift and the woman went to talk over her fees with Dieter and Alex went upstairs back to bed, hoping for another several hours sleep.

Jamie shifted to hug him as he lay back down, "No blowjobs yet, lets get some more sleep."

Alex did not argue, just enjoyed the breeze through the drawn curtains. Falling asleep listening to his lovers heart beat.


	22. Chapter 22

The room was brightly lit, the floor was freshly washed, making the place smell of a mix bleach and the underlying rank ness of decay. Strapped to a chair, the guest was awoken by the bellow of the jovial brute acting as host.

"Gino, Gino, Gino, we now have a full account of your misdemeanours from your Russian friends. We know everything. No lies to hide behind. No one else to blame. Time to face the consequences of your mistakes. The man who you extorted those bonds from, he was considering consequences when he told my boss he was doing unsanctioned business on his turf." The tormentor was using the age old technique of sleep depravation, psychological manipulation, thirst and hunger to break his subject. Only when fully mailable would punishment be meted out. Patience was needed, as too soon, you instilled righteous anger in your subject who would plot revenge. The punishment had to be measured, if you were too brutal and you had a corpse. A true lesson, for this subject needed to carry the burden of his guilt as a living, breathing, broken example to others; which was far more effective than a body in a morgue.

The interrogator had trained in Venice in the finer techniques of persuasion, now working freelance, he knew this man had been a possible student, but surmised he would never have graduated, as he lacked the primal survival instinct necessary for that gladiatorial arena of the assassin's trade and SCORPIA politics. The data he had gathered, the victim of the kidnapping plot was had been resourceful and resilience, catching his abductor unawares when the fool had relaxed too early. More intelligent by far, considering the kid had picked billionaires as friends rather than employers or targets. Sprintz had paid out the ransom because the kid had stood in for his son, after the idiot took the wrong teenager. It was more farce than criminal master plan.

...

Alex tensed as they entered the crowded restaurant, taking three quick, deep sharp breaths to calm himself. Like the doctor forebode, he was not OK, but not for any of the obvious reasons. He stood transfixed on Jamie's back as he walked behind the waiter showing them to their table; as bile rose in his throat. Anxiety driven by nerves, tomorrow he was travelling back to Britain, to Glasgow to see Jamie's grandmother. The fear of being arrested at the airport; ripped from his family and his love, to disappear, his hard earned happiness gone, which was stupid. How could they charge the son of the former president of the Russian Federation, who was a US citizen with treason or make him jump to their tune ever again. The legend invented by Joe Byrne had become his reality, as Alex Rider had been burned from British records before they knew of his survival in Murmansk. A kid hospitalised with elective mutism after the psychological trauma of Sarov's death, had been left to cope alone, while MI6 cut their loss to cover up their abuse of a teenager. Here, because his father had followed the directions of Maya, to cut the apron strings, to let his son seek closure with his past and his abusers and move on. He needed to touch base with the land of his birth, to be ignored by the spooks or to drive home the reality that he was not theirs to use, not after they left him high and dry.

...

Dieter immediately noticed Sasha was dealing with a moment of panic. He had been here before, when Jamie had returned from that school. His son still preferring his own company and his own space; only fully trusting those who had shared that awfulness with. The father was aware he would always be on the outside after one misguided decision. He had worked hard so they were closer now. He stood and softly touched the teenager's arm to guide him, not reacting to the noticeable flinch.

Having frequently corresponded with and become close friends with Boris, Dieter was well aware Alex was an expert in pretending to be normal, but here with friends as close as family, he did not have to put up the mask. In a soft whisper, he asked "Do you wish to return home? Jamie can visit Margaret on his own if you need to see your therapist. It is not a weakness to admit you need help."

Reading the melancholy mood of the young man, who admitted "If I go home now, it's me caving and using avoidance rather than confronting my issues. It's not my unexpected sojourn last week that's the problem, but the truth about how I became Sasha. I have to face the blackmail and the hurt from before. Who knows, I might even say thanks, because I have family and security despite them and their shitty choices and manipulations." Then he let Dieter help him to his seat, where he clasped Jamie's hand, wanting the comfort of touch to continue. Raised touch starved, trained to be a controlled sociopath, ultimately he had been a child who had craved love and family.

The German and his son spoke enough Italian to order their exact choices of wine, seafood starter and steak entree. Alex pondered the menu and added "sparkling water, I have a bit of an upset stomach, so soup and pasta in tomato sauce." Dieter knew Alex was self taught in this language, using genetic not specific terms, but he was not playing the game of pretending to be Italian, just another tourist. Enough Italian to get his point across. no desire to play spy games anymore. He was an adult, one who had yet to decide what he wanted in life, but it wasn't to be a professional liar with no friends and alone.

Sasha was open and seemed to really appreciate the dry wit of the financier and shared his love of games. The evening finished with a high stakes game of Monopoly, where Dieter was outplayed as his son's boyfriend showed him never to bet against the seventeen year old who had remarkable luck and a talent for winning, beating him hands down. He was almost tempted to offer Sasha an internship.

...

Jamie was aware that his love was still anxious and hyper aware for threats as they sat waiting for their flight to be called as they sat in the hard seats by the gate. Unable to sleep last night, they had talked instead. The German had napped in the ride to the airport, now acutely aware that they could not be affectionate in public and contact was set at side by side in close proximity seating for several hours and possibly the next few days if his grandmother took the news of his relationship badly. Empathy spiked, as this trip home was monumental to Sasha as well. The dark haired young man did not really get the therapy bullshit over closure. As the quick change of multiple identities and a life based on a dubious passport was game playing on a whole new level, where there were no rules and no winners, only maintaining the status quo of governments, beyond politics and economics. Jamie had been caught up once in the schemes of a madman, yet here the madmen were in charge of ruining Sasha's life, when everything became lies. He wanted to believe that spying was in the past, but once caught up in the Great Game, you were trapped by blackmail and manipulations.

The other passengers rushed to board, while the two teenagers sat and watched. In his bad Russian, the financier's son stated "it'll be fine. Your passport and your adoption are both legal. It would be an international incident for them to play games with you now. It's the Russians having a laugh letting you stir up trouble". He did not add his own ideal of hiring that Cossack bloke to be a sword of righteous justice. His dark thoughts were disturbed by messages on his phone from Cassian, lewdly enquiring on joining the mile high club on the short flight from Naples to a Glasgow. Alex chuckled reading it. "Not a chance flying commercial, babe. Your dad's business jet sure, in the cabin but forget getting it on in the loo. Never going to happen."


	23. Chapter 23

The blond tourist ran past another ugly roundabout, that seemed to infest this town of planned housing and industrial estates. Tomorrow he'd run round Calderglen Park, for some greenery and less concrete jungle. It was early enough to be quiet on the streets, as he ran a full the circuit around the town. It was not a place he would choose to live, yet Maggie McCudden had refused her son in law's offer of a new house in a more salubrious location. As a devote catholic, Jamie's grandmother viewed her daughter as still married and had remained friends with Dieter, not just in a effort to stay close to James. As he noted his location, knowing it was another couple of kilometres back to the two bedroomed ground floor flat in the four storey council owned block. He felt like a third wheel, as Jamie was biding his time on his big reveal, so Sasha was just 'the friend', though he knew the old woman was on to them. Hell, they could be sharing a bed in the next room to hers as BFFs, but she was not hard of hearing and the bed had creaked alarmingly when the pair had christened it last night. This morning he was pondering another circuit to avoid the tension and give his lover time to come clean or keep his poker face with his grandmother.

Alex pondered the car he had seen two streets ago as he veered through the subway and across the recreation ground. Same number plate, driver and passenger obviously tailing him. He then approached the final climb he

saw a familiar old man reading the Herald Tribune at the bus stop on Westwood Hill.

Breaking into a beaming approximation of a Hollywood smile and with perfect American accent, Alex greeted the man who had sent him into exile like he was his bestest friend ever, "Morning Uncle Joe. I thought you were exiled to the back end of beyond. Are you here on vacation as well?"

...

Her grandson was in the bath as she followed her usual routine of tidying around her guest bedroom. After making the bed, she noticed the two passports on the dresser. One German and the other American, puzzled having been told this Sasha was from Moscow, she read the details of his birthplace and birthdate. This strange boy with a Russian name was 17 and only just and had been born in Los Angeles in California. From her conversations with Dieter she knew Jamie had been pining for his friend Dimitry's little brother for three years. The young man in question was very polite, and from the fact the guest room was not a disaster area, very neat as well.

She sat on the bed. This was hard. Jamie was happy to proudly show off his love to her. With her brother and his son coming for tea this afternoon, she guessed that would be when he chose to come out as her grandson liked to be dramatic, one trait he inherited from Blythe. Oh, she knew it was love not lust, by the passion, deep devotion and almost symbiosis between the pair. She had fallen hard at seventeen for her Desmond, only to loose him nineteen years later. How many times had she beseeched Jamie to grab happiness with both hands and fight with all your might to keep it true as it could all disappear in an instant. Her own grief had driven a wedge between mother and daughter. This relationship it would not be marriage in the church's eyes, but love was love. Common sense rather than doctrine would prevail. In all the years she'd known the bairn, he'd had never once looked askance or blushed at any other men or boys. Sasha was special and maybe her grandson's one and only. Time would tell. First her brother had to be warned so he did not upset the apple cart with misguided opinions. It was too easy to break a relationship with harsh words and harder than granite to mend them.

...

In the small kitchen, the table was covered with toast, cereal, tea and condiments. On her second cup, Maggie smiled as her grandson joined her. Aware that the boyfriend had been out for over two hours, surely he could not still be running? "Where is Sasha, this morning?"

Busy pouring milk on Frosties, Jamie shrugged "Messaged me he got a bad stitch and is walking back. He's been a bit poorly, so I guess he pushed himself too hard on his first run in two weeks. He's scarily fit, brilliant at everything physical. Even likes ballet. He used to train with his brother's girlfriend, she is studying dance in Ekaterinburg."

"Oh, Blythe used to love dance class. I had foolish dreams of her becoming a ballerina, like Margot Fonteyn. Tell me more about Sasha's family."

She listened to what was said and read between the words to surmise the fuller picture by what was not being said, that Sasha had gone to live with his father at the age of thirteen and the time before was not discussed. No mention of his mother at all. As bad as her daughter had been, what had Sasha's mother done to become a non-person. Her grandson loved, protected and adored Sasha, empathising with another who had endured a horrific childhood, worse even than the trials caused by Blythe.

...

At eleven the rain started lashing down and Sasha returned like a wet stray. He had covered his tracks, as he arrived back with a box of cakes from the posh patisserie in the town centre. Smiling he gave his package to his hostess, more gifts after arrived yesterday with a large bouquet of roses. "Guys, you have to see this place, the coffee is amazing. I'm wired after four espressos and their almond croissants are just wow. Sorcha, the master baker, is just so brilliant." He then pulled off his wet shirt. "I really need to get showered. If you'll excuse me."

Jamie was sat on the bed, joint his roomie after his quick wash. "Spill, about the other three hours plus unaccounted for. You could have run to Kilmarnock and back in the time you've been out. By the way, Gran is horrified about your scars. Did you show her your back on purpose?"

Alex dried his hair with a towel as he looked out at the window, speaking in Russian rather than English or German in case he was overhead "rather than ask the same question your asking, she now knows my life is completely fucked up. It's all connected anyway, Uncle Joe wanted to debrief me about Cuba and Sarov. He lost a good team because of that psycho. Don't worry, Aunty Tulip does not know he's on this side of the pond. He kind of thinks she and Her predecessor were dicks over burning me. He wishes me well and offered me a boon if I need it. Now I have friends in high and low places in Washington. Thankfully he did not offer me a job. Said I was better off well away from his world and to always choose love over lies."

...

Alex dumped two spoons of sugar in his tiny cup of espresso as Byrne drank his down neat. The coffee shop did not open for an hour. The staff busy in the back and only the two minders watching over the street. The blond teenager then bit into the croissant and decided this working breakfast was better than dragging him to the embassy in Edinburgh for the full official debrief.

Sitting back Alex began in a soft monotone, "I remember every detail of my parent's deaths." He smiled bitterly at that statement, "Let's face it, officially they became mom and dad as soon as my legend became kosher. I have no idea what the Cuban's investigation concluded about their disappearance, never cared to ask. I was not in the water when they died. Sharks got rid of all evidence. I'd checked over their tanks before they went in and I knew their air was running low when I followed their trail right into the full on feeding frenzy. I still have nightmares over that. Then Conrad, Sarov's delightful henchman, happened when I surfaced. The captain already dead."

The CIA deputy director did not interrupt, recording every word. Far from the teenager merely acting as cover for his two agents on a simple surveillance job, it had been a full on FUBAR from that moment. This kid had survived by the skin of his teeth and stopped the bomb being detonated. He had read the reports from the team in Moscow over the failed coupe. The Embassy had been copied into the medical reports from Murmansk about Alex, then the monthly reports from the psychologist treating Him for PTSD and survivors guilt. The psychological damage bad enough from the events leading up to Sarov's death, then made worse by London doing a full clean up and leaving the kid high and dry living a lie. Thank God, Boris was a decent guy and had done his best for the kid by adopting him. In the long run, it had been the best outcome possible as Alex was a better off far from him and MI6.


	24. Chapter 24

Byrne's fell asleep as soon as he was airborne, a first as flights were used for catching up on his ever growing inbox, true rest was a thing he had not achieved for over twenty years as he used his insomnia to keep up with his workload. On the flight from Paris to DC, he slept like the dead in his business class seat, waking as the plane began its descent. His first action on reaching his basement office was to sign off the file for Fallen Angel as inactive. The Deputy Director of Covert Operations then went upstairs to see his boss for a verbal sign off as his blackwork was never part of the official filing/memo/email trail nor on the CIA mainframe and archive. Joe Byrne had typed up the brief contact report on the official reason detailing the only surviving witness to the deaths of two American Tourists, tying Sarov to their murder. His official report nicely covering over the unofficial reality of the debrief, as he alone knew the details of why Sarov was a person of interest. The only reason the whole debacle had not been public knowledge was the Russian cover up was airtight, which had included protecting Alex. Byrne had a bad feeling that Blunt had expected the FSB to make the teen agent disappear.

It was after five before he made it to his favourite watering hole for a Guinness and a chaser of Irish Whiskey. The place full of tourists and students, loud to make it the perfect cover for meeting both allies and the opposition. Sat in the corner booth was the Professor of Russian Literature at Georgetown.

As the CIA spook joined the poet, the FSB deep cover spy poured him a glass of champagne, then raised his glass, "to the young lovers in Bonny Scotland."

Byrne laughed then sipped the fine chilled wine. "To all young lovers. Fools like me got caught up in the Great Game and then my childhood sweetheart found lawyers to clean up for my neglect. How is the lovely Diandra?"

"Pregnant again. Number five. My students think I'm sex mad. In truth, great makeup sex has consequences. Five trial separations and now five kids. Chelsea is now heading for college herself, so I won't need to scale up again. I need another film deal to pay for medical school though. The scenario of an efficiently dull bureaucrat acting as black-ops spymaster is perfect for a quick bestseller, don't you think?"

"Ask Jeanette Williams that. She's the new deputy director of covert operations. If you are writing such a thing, make the protagonist female. You have met Tulip Jones. The bitch buried Blunt after Alex turned up alive and trapped in Russia." Finishing the fizz, he took a big gulp of his Irish stout. "I'm just an instructor back at the FBI now, counter espionage and counter terrorism. Think, nine to five, no more life and death decisions. So, what is the betting pool on Sasha's next move? I put fifty on wedding bells in two years and being the perfect partner for the ambitious Mr Sprintz. I watched them in Italy and on the flight to Glasgow. After reading the reports from Moscow, I was damn sure we had potential Cossack on our hands. Boris has been a miracle worker."

"It was a team effort from the outset for us. We are all waiting to see if MI6 wants their toy back. That will be most amusing to read about. I will keep you in the loop. My counterpart in London is fully aware of the Presidential interest of the young Mr. Kiriyenko. Sasha out played that bastard perfectly by becoming the dance partner of his youngest daughter. He's practically family to the most ruthless bastard in Moscow."

...

Margaret left another message for her only surviving child, this time with the agent she despised, knowing that individual was the worst bottom feeding parasite in her daughter's clique. She was livid after posting an invitation the week before. Tomorrow, there was a family party at the Hilton. Dieter was coming to be polite, when he had never been comfortable with large gatherings of his grandson's Scottish relations. For his son that man would walk on coals. Becoming a mother had made Blythe a coward, running from her responsibilities. Love was not enough for her daughter, not compared to the liars and cheats she preferred to share her time with.

The old woman then went to look at the fabulous creation Sasha was constructing in her tiny kitchen. He had just made caramel for spun sugar as the final decoration on a tower of profiteroles too tall for her tiny fridge, which would be stored in the fridge at the hotel overnight. She and Jamie had taste tested these morsels and it was one of the best puddings she had eaten in her life. The buffet catered for, as the party was to celebrate Jamie's coming of age, start of university and finally to welcome Sasha to the family. Everyone happy Jamie had put his difficulties behind him. At fourteen, he had been staring at a future in jail.

It was going to be grand party, with or without her daughter turning up. The etiquette of coming out meant the entire family now knew Jamie was gay, with one exception his mother. It was her loss.

...

The vase sailed through the air, missing it's mark and shattering on the floor as he walked out of the door for the last time. Blythe McCudden screamed in frustration as her status shifted back to single. The young actor had used his time with her to use all her connections and was now moving to LA for the starring role in an A list movie. She was stuck in the rut of starring roles in forgettable rep revivals and second rate TV dramas to keep the wolf from the door.

She walked away from the mess to go back to bed, ignoring the messages on her phone. The one time muse and centre of fashionable London was intent on a monumental pity party. It had been a miserable summer, chasing the few jobs passed to her by Colin. Her agent doing a piss poor job of getting her work. The day to day grind of phoning contacts, visiting open castings for TV, stage, even attempt to stay current by modelling or adorning a few pop videos was not paying off. Her status was precarious, known for second rebate productions and flops, fighting for work with actors far more talented, respected and liked by their peers. Blythe was more at home on the pages of the tabloids than the industry press. The slime, Laurence had probably already given his kiss and tell exclusive for Sunday's headlines. Maybe she should write her own screenplays, give herself a juicy role. It couldn't be that hard.

...

Alex ran faster as it started to drizzle. It was another miserable morning, not helped by his hangover. He blamed the three glasses of champagne, not the several rounds of vodka shots as he introduced Jamie's cousins to adopting Russian good luck rituals. Dieter had brought several bottles of the best quality grain vodka for his new son. Today they were travelling to London for Jamie to give his mother the ultimatum of every neglected child after years of therapy, he was now in control of their relationship and it was going to be closure or the new start, untainted by her past failings.

The ex spy had his own reason for the brief stay over in London. He had to confront his past abusers, some with civility of bygones be bygones and some with the enmity they deserved.


	25. Chapter 25

Tulip Jones had lived alone far longer than she'd been married. Geriant no longer in touch, after they both promised to remain friends after they separated amicably. She knew he had remarried, she did not begrudge him being happy, normal. He returned to teach, as she strived to find justice after the deaths of her parents and twin sons. She had been transferred from undercover duties for the Special Branch at Scotland Yard to MI6 Special Operations after foiling a major IRA bombing campaign and earning a large price on her head. After 20 years away from the Met, no one wrote or called, she had no close friends at the Royal and General, just efficient working relationships. She had learned after the death of John Rider not to get attached to her coworkers.

Her building had 24 hour security in the lobby. It was late, just after midnight when she arrived back after another fraught day, Gerald the night guard handed her a handwritten envelope. "Hand delivered at five past six, just after I came on duty, by a polite young man. American. Blond, brown eyes, tanned, tall, around 6 foot, fit, around eighteen, well dressed, designer. He talked about travelling after school, said he was staying at the Dorchester. I asked for details for the visitors book, he filled it in, all right. Cheeky sod, in Russian of all things."

She read the name and address in beautiful calligraphy, 'Aleksandr son of the great spy Hunter, formerly of Apartment 324, the Kremlin, Moscow, Russia. Now travelling, going to California to visit school friends next Monday'. She opened the note, also written in neat Cyrillic, inviting her to lunch tomorrow at his hotel.

Refolding the note, she placed it in her handbag. "An invitation to lunch from the son of an old friend. A surprise, he was adopted four years ago with no contact since. I never expected to hear from him again." At least not cordially, she thought. In the morning she'd pull up the file from her colleagues at Albert Embankment to see what they had observed about Boris Kiriyenko's son, since Blunt burned Alex Rider from official records

...

Alex sat and watched Jamie try on his third outfit. "You look spectacular in those jeans, darling. Put the Tom Ford shirt back on. Keep it stylishly casual and in season. Relax, channel my empathy, both confronting our personal big bad wolves today. Your mother is small fry in comparison to Tulip Jones. It's a sucker bet to say mummy will probably bore you rigid with her me me me attitude. You can just sit back and let her hang herself, you have the upper hand in that you at least tried to be the adult."

The dark blue shirt was discarded and the cream one, last matched with his newly bought suit, was put back on as Alex stood up and started to hang up the items not being worn. He was a bit OCD about order, but Jamie kept him straight when he went a bit overboard. It was going to be a weird day all around. They would go over every detail together tonight over a pizza. Coming home, as being back in Britain, was home to Sasha as much as Moscow was. It was the stupid things that had satisfied a deep longing for things missing from his life. Jamie's Gran cooking bacon sarnies with HP sauce, toast and marmite and beans on toast awakened good memories from the dim and distant past. The real deal had been rediscovering takeaways. Fish and chips on the day out to Largs had been orgasmic, as had the lime pickle, poppadoms, lamb bhuna and garlic naan eaten in front of the telly as a Saturday night treat.

He had no links to places or ideals as Ian had ultimately failed to make him a patriot willing to sacrifice all for Queen and Country. It had been his uncle's hastily employed housekeeper, a lazy American with no culinary skills what so ever, who had instilled a love of all things quick and easy in the child she kept house for. After everything he was happy enough living anywhere, now as much Russian as part time English with an undercurrent of not really belonging as either, considering the legend of an American exile. Alex was well aware of his imposter syndrome, anchored by the nomadic early life, when his uncle had been intent on making him a linguistic natural by moving across Europe often. Up until secondary school, Alex had changed schools every one to two terms. Never making good friends, but developing the skills to fit in and also be comfortable as a loner. What had the Rider boys endured to grow up with their skill set as ideal spies?

In Russia, he had learned that the past was his to own and forging alliances was key to a successful future. His arsenal to use against MI6 was the damage they had wrought with their blackmail on the child-spy's psyche. Considering the reckless disregard for his own safety still in play after his actions in Italy. No regrets, but in hindsight he had made himself a target without a second thought for self preservation. He had talked things over with his papa, who rationalised that Dieter's security team had been at fault, not him. Alex was aware that the German financier would always put his son's security first and the best security had been the faults and skills of his son's boyfriend.

Jamie had taken a taxi to his favourite Vietnamese restaurant, to await his mother, who was famously unpunctual and forgetful. Sat at the table, he sipped a glass of ice cold water. Already aware that brutally blunt honesty and impeccable manners was the best policy with Mrs Jones. He wanted a home here again and the problem over a residency visa was all he was asking as recompense for her former boss' action of burning him to rely on the goodwill of others. Not that it mattered if she played hardball, the backup plan was to apply for a student visa and then settle in the States or Canada after graduation, if Jamie was no longer wanting a relationship. The future would not involve spying, considering Byrne had assured him there was little chance of passing any standard psychological assessment.

The dining room was beginning to fill up when Alex spotted the arrival of his guest. Her hair still brutally cut in a no nonsense Her clothes functional off the peg suit and blouse, in slightly dowdy style and colours, matched with a classic brown leather handbag. Standing to greet his guest, this was his chance to bury any animosity and ensure a blank slate. Spying was in the past, that career path derailed on the quayside in Murmansk. Sasha Kiriyenko was well versed in politics and the reality of the high stakes of international relations, considering the US and Russian governments had his back. There was no warmth in his smile, he was no prey or pawn. His cards were on show, with a couple of axes in easy reach if needed.

...

Tulip Jones appreciated the politeness and her lunch , the mask of civility. If she had been in Alex's shoes, Blunt would have been breathing his last. She sipped her glass of white wine, talking of the weather and his schooling. She was well aware this former operative has no intention of rejoining the Royal and General Bank's workforce. There had been no carrot used by her predecessor to gain the trust and loyalty of Ian's talented nephew. His shortsighted goal of taking down Sayle had set in motion the alienation of a child, she had been planned a hostile take over to rescue him, but the Russian's had nurtured him instead of imprisoning him as Blunt expected.

In soft Russian, Alex started to speak as their starters were served. "I read your file, the FSB one. Their analysts were genuinely surprised when you ousted Blunt. Called you ruthless and efficient, not to be crossed. From reading between the lines, your predecessor was not well liked, but I get that national security is not about popularity." His bite of endive salad was deliciously bitter, he chewed and swallowed every scrap, noting the bitch was observing him closely. "Don't worry I'm not an asset for Moscow. Byrne stated I'd fail any psychological assessment for them as well as the all important background check because of my adoption, not the fact Ian and John were both pathological liars. For the record, I know about SCORPIA and the CAD mole." The arrest and imprisonment of Sean Anthony Howell had been by closed military tribunal, held in a maximum security stockade far from civilisation. "The blowback from that must have been horrendous considering." The diner then placed his silverware silently to signal he had finished his starter. "Is your pate not to your liking? The salad was excellent."

She nibbled her melba toast smeared in duck parfait, Alex was in fine form, sharp as his father but chillingly cold. Using this lunch to drive home his status as untouchable. Playing a different game, with billionaires for friends and a sizeable trust fund from General Sarov to keep far from the grubby world which had cost him his name, his past and his biological family.


	26. Chapter 26

Of all the crappy jobs the rookie transfer from the Met to MI5 could be assigned, Dave Lancaster had drawn the ultimate short straw, tailing the teenage son of the former President of the Russian Federation. His supervisor had smirked when he gave him this plum job. So far this week, his daily contact reports noted the kid had been out for several runs, eaten in several nice restaurants in Knightsbridge, been round several flats with the son of Dieter Sprintz and the agents bending over backwards for the substantial commission on the high end property sale considering the flats in question were well over a million pond bracket . The most onerous bit was keeping out of site the security detail tailing the billionaire's son.

Today the ever so boring seventeen year old was eating lunch in his hotel, as his boyfriend was off to visit his yummy mother. The agent was sat at the bar, having ordered the cheapest sandwich on the menu and an extremely over priced coke, when he noticed the Head of MI6 Special Operations arrive and then sit at the table with the kid. The basic contact report was no longer boring, but a puzzle. Last week there had been the report of Joe Byrne in Glasgow, when the poor bastard assigned that tail had lost his mark for six hours. This kid had been in the same neck of the woods. What kind of kid moves in these circles? Without taking his eyes off the bar mirror, he phoned this in.

Tulip looked at her main course, making note of every ingredient and agreeing it was visual and fragrant culinary masterpiece. Her appetite today was lacking considering her preoccupation with her nightmare last night. Overindulgence of cheese nor alcohol had no part in her overactive subconscious, which had conjured a lunch with Yassen Gregorovich, a man she'd had met just once, after he surrendered to the Presidential Secret Service Agents in 2001. The killer with a mind like a trap, thinking seven moves ahead, as taught by Hunter. Anyone at Malagosto could have moulded a teenager into a thug, but it had been her friend while undercover, who had treated that lost teen as a protege, teaching him to excel in a world of death and destruction and to stay two steps ahead to thrive at SCORPIA. Cossack had learned from Hunter's mistakes, so no flirting, no friends, no lovers and trusting no one to survive and move on from the promise of revenge and reprisal.

It was a wonder the dream had not been about Hunter's only sibling. Years ago, a teenage John Rider had raised his brother to treat survival as a game where the pair practically raised themselves as their paranoid father took security jobs around Europe to get a first at Cambridge. Ian had then raised his nephew to be a spy, rather than nurture the boy as his son, taking after his father rather than John prioritising skills not stability. Did Alex think this lunch was a game? To her shame her first contact with Alex had been Ian's funeral and then failing to prevent Blunt abusing a vulnerable orphan. Her instincts told her this invitation was to mediate by a very polite teenager was using everything at his disposal to avoid becoming like his father or uncle. The psychologist treating Alex in Moscow was a world renown expert on developmental and traumatic dissociative disorder. The lunch where Sasha Kiriyenko, reinforced the truth that whole raised to excel at the Great Game, being adopted by a Russian politician had taught him new tricks to balance blackmail with compromise, unlike Blunt capitalising carrot rather than just stick.

The waiter attended to refill their water glasses and looked dismayed at the untouched food. "Is their a problem, madam?"

Years at the sharp end meant Tulip Jones was expected to never wallow in failure, but here she was faced with the bitterness of compounded mistakes. First trusting Ash and Blunt to protect John Rider, then by trusting Ian to raise his nephew and contributing to the neglect her friend's only child, never realising Ian's nefarious training scheme, then finally letting Blunt and Crawley use the teenager as an undercover agent not once but four times. All resulting in the final nail in Blunt's career of forcing a child to renounce his family name and nationality, as their was no comeback to claiming his birthright and his family legacy. Fiddling with her napkin, she took a sip of the chilled water and smiled at the young server, "just enjoying catching up, it's been several years since I last saw my old friend's son." Practiced at noticing small details to assess situations and evaluate threats, she was aware Alex viewed her as a threat and was anxious and managing his fear with controlling his environment. She was aware of the damage done by using Alex when he was fourteen, that this was a relationship she needed to recoup on a personal level and not let slide. Crawley had insinuated a possible future working relationship, but she was not as cold and as ruthless as her deputy nor an undisputed ruthless bastard like Blunt. Her internal promise was not to negate her responsibilities for past mismanagement and admit her failure to protect him. "I came to apologise for my past shortcomings and a promise that you are not a person of interest. So, to new horizons, health and happiness." She saw the distrust in the young man's eyes as he watched her drink alone. She also noted the MI5 newbie at the bar, doing a poor job of blending in. He should have vacated line of sight as soon as she sat down. Mistakes like that got agents killed when their mark was really the opposition.

"Toasts are made with good vodka, Mrs Jones. Something my sisters and father taught me. I also learned that Ian was a shit parental figure and knew nothing about love, support and raising children. Thank you for letting me stay in Russia and having a real family, not drag me back to dance to Blunt's tune." He looked at his half eaten food and carefully placed his cutlery down, trading clearing his plate for eating a full portion of pudding. Without the need for threats, he was free. "So, the Neanderthal at the bar is not your security? I know he's not FSB or CIA. Too green for graduation to real fieldwork."

Mrs Jones savoured her salad, then Stated without guile, "Special Branch, did a stint undercover on human trafficking, on a fast track promotion. Probationary with MI5. I think this might be his first time out on his own tailing a person of interest. As the son of a Boris. Blunt was efficient in covering his arse after Murmansk." She sighed, "The last time I counted a colleague as a close friend was your father. Blunt removed me as his handler as soon as John insisted on extraction from SCORPIA." Tulip finished her entree as work meant she did not have the luxury of a leisurely lunch. "Let me know if Crawley approaches you. He's not been the same after being kidnapped and tortured by outside agency over information about you when you were in Murmansk. I may have to place him on administrative leave if his obsession over you continues, it might be signs of programming our psychologists failed to pick up. You have to be aware of the threats by others, especially SCORPIA and other agencies. Keep alert, let me, Byrne or your watchers at the FSB know if you feel threatened. We owe you that. I will also arrange a full residential visa for you, if you wish to settle or study here. No strings attached. Next time we lunch, it will be my treat. Probably a sandwich or a cheeky curry nearer the office. Though leaving John to fully take the reigns for a few hours now and then is healthy for me. I chose this life, Sasha after I lost my family. No longer the revenge it was at first, but keeping other families from my pain. Most of our agents have no family, John was an exception. No, Helen was exceptional, though I suspect only because she was kept in the loop. Your father always played by his own rules."

Alex had his poker face on, but he was genuinely surprised, as Tulip Jones had gone for open dialogue. Here not as a spy or to control blowback, but as his father's friend first and foremost. He was empathic to understand in her position she could not have friends, yet he was a burned agent who had survived and thrived as such. Her olive branch was to have his home back with the occasional lunch in the future. She got that he was striving for as close to normal as possible.

With their plates cleared away and both studying the dessert menu, Tulip enquired "You might want to visit the School of Russian and Eastern European Studies, with your A Level grades, I can confirm your straight As, you are a shoe in for a place through clearing since James is studying at UCL."

"Err, I already contacted the Open University. I start home studying in September. They have a place for me even if I go travelling or go home to Moscow. Much more my thing."


	27. Chapter 27

Alex closed the door to the suite and collapsed on the floor as years of tension, guilt and fear were suddenly stripped away. After a dazed five minutes of hysterical laughter had given way to tears, he pulled out his phone and called his father. "Dad... the meeting was fine, better than fine. Mrs Jones was almost human... almost. I fear for the guy that's been tailing me, who is going to get a roasting over being totally unsubtle and gaining her attention. Me, I'm just your son now. No spookiness expected and she gave me the heads up that her deputy, that Crawley bloke, might try and recruit me; but that's already a firm no from her and those she answers to. I can't wait to see you after I've been stateside. Joe has only four days leave booked, so I can't cancel. I miss you guys. I'm genuinely and throughly homesick. I still can't believe the nightmare is over."

"I cannot wait to see you too, Sasha. I have also been apprehensive over this meeting. It was a gamble that has paid off and please hope you forgive us pushing you to resolve this. You are always welcome here, both you and Jamie. Do I need to warn the embassy here over this Crawley?"

"No, I can handle him, I will be kind as well. Mrs Jones told me he had a bad experience a few years ago and it's affected him. Well, it's a level playing field there. I... will go see the guy on Harley Street Maya said was not a total loser." The ex spy had assumed leaving home would mean an end to the regular head shrinking sessions, yet today he could see he would need to talk about this like he did with Maya, to gain perspective and make sure he was making the right conclusions. "You, Ola and Tasha were spot on about confronting my fears, as always. This was just a quick chat. I will Skype you later after Jamie tells me all his news about his mommy dearest. I hope it was as productive as mine and had resolved their issues."

...

The 11am meeting with the casting agency had turned into a working lunch. Blythe had been offered the part of devious old maid, because the originally cast actress had dropped out and her replacement was needed on set tomorrow, flying out to Italy first thing in the morning. An actual film, with a reputable director and A list stars and excellent supporting castl. Her luck was finally turning as she phoned Jamie to apologise. He did not answer, so she decided to go to his hotel room to apologise in person and relay her good fortune.

...

As Alex politely shook Mrs Jones' hand before she returned to work, three streets over James Sprintz ordered his lunch, sick of waiting for his mother to arrive. The place was heaving and the manager had come over to tell him to eat or vacate the table. In minutes, he called the waitress back over as anger suppressed his appetite and he requested his order as a takeout as he was sick of waiting and for a taxi to be ordered for him. An hour and a half late without any word on a expected arrival time was taking the biscuit and a new low for Blythe. Leaving a really generous tip, the lone diner could not wait to get back to his hotel.

...

The food had been forgotten as the round of anger fuelled sex turned into the slow passion of make up sex. Alex had diffused his lover's bad mood perfectly in a rare play of complete dominance then completely attentive sensuality. Afternoon sex had made way for an afternoon nap. Their clothes strew across the floor of their suite from hall to bed. The beautiful shirt ripped from Jamie's body was now only good for the trash.

Alex was awake in an instant from the tentative knock on the door, as Jamie was still snoring softly and completely out for the count. Naked and with no shame, the young lover opened the door and cheerfully greeting the guest with a bright smile on his face "Afternoon, Blythe. Come on in and make yourself at home, your son is asleep."

Alex started to pick up his discarded clothes, then noted his own shirt was as ruined as Jamie's. He was aware of the shocked expression on the woman's face at the mess in their living room and the buck naked overly friendly stranger inviting her in. He then started tidying up explaining, "Jamie darling was a bit angry earlier, being stood up and all. I distracted him with sex. My name is Sasha Kiriyenko, by the way. We met at school in France. Yes, that school. The one you recommended to Dieter. I should thank you, for that. Otherwise we would never have met and fallen in love." He dug the knife in about Point Blanc pure,y because Ms. McCudden had refused to believe her son that it had been that bad. The place had been horrific, hence years of control issues, trust issues and needing therapy. Inwardly, he smiled at his top trump of having outed Jamie to his mother as well.

"James is gay?" was stuttered to his statement as she noticed the scars on this gloating teenager's back, crisscrossing white stripes in stark relief to the toned tanned skin.

Matching up socks and folding the trousers, Alex replied "Duhh. He has had the hots for me since he was 14. Only took me three years to notice and then I had to pluck up the courage to take the initiative, as he thought I was asexual. Well, so did my brother and dad. Anyway, my problem is that I don't trust people. They let you down and fuck you over generally." All items accounted for and in a neat pile, he then pointed at the takeout bag. "That's lunch by the way."

He then went into the bedroom, dumping the clothes he had just picked up and kissing his boyfriend awake before breaking the bad news. "Your mom's here."

Jamie rubbed his eyes and then yelped "you opened the door naked!"

With a grin like a Cheshire Cat completely happy with his calculated strategy to upset and shock Blythe, "Yep, and introduced myself as your handsome and hot lover."

"Bastard, I wanted to do that?"

Alex smiled and then quipped "then you should have answered to door naked and stinking of sex then."

Jamie gently smacked his boyfriend's bare leg at the bad joke, "No, asshat, tell queen bitch of the universe I'm gay."

...

Her son was no longer a child. He had a lover and was planning on moving in with this Sasha; who was obviously a crazy nymphomaniac. Her brief phone conversation with her mother and then Dieter had led nowhere. Both fools adored James' boyfriend. The kid allegedly had a substantial portfolio managed by her ex and her mother sang his praises as a sweet shy kid wanting to play homemaker. The actress had fallen into a parallel universe, where her Catholic mother was not ranting and raving about living in sin, but empathising about young love. Then complaining that the Church needed to get over its outdated views on sexuality. The absentee mother missing out on the point that it was love and the couple were mutually exclusive, wore rings and in the old woman's eyes were as good as married. Over a sleepless night, she mused over hiring a Private Investigator to dig the dirt on Sasha, but that would have to wait until her location shoot was over.

...

Tom paused for a moment as he crossed over Vauxhall Bridge to look down the River Thames from the Tate, though he could not see the World's End Estate where he had grown up, which was over two miles away because of the bend in the river. He had made no attempt to visit his mum and dad, his old school or any old haunts. Though today he was meeting his pen-friend, as catching up with Sabina Pleasure had become a regular occurrence on his days off. The venue today was a cut above the usual cafes, coffee shops or galleries. The Rex Whistler Restaurant was well out of his budget, but Sabina has assured him this was her birthday treat. The girl made a mint off her social media platform mixing fashion, current affairs, environmental issues and hard hitting exposes on social inequality and miscarriages of justice.

The table had three already sat down, the two other guys with their backs to him as he approached, were obviously other BFFs of the lovely Ms. Pleasure. Luckily there was no sign of her recording this lunch for her vlog.

The tall, thin and effortlessly stylish young woman smiled broadly as she stood to hug Tom, her whole demeanour of happiness as she introduced her other guests. "Celebrating with us today are James Sprintz and his boyfriend, Sasha." With that she could not help giggling in pure joy as the Londoner shook hands with James and then stared open mouthed at Sasha, before blurting out, "Alex?"


	28. Chapter 28

Having spent 10 days in the America, Sasha and Jamie went their separate ways, both returning home to visit their fathers. Four days at home and Alex got to open his exam results. Over those days Ola had watched her brother and was worried. That night there had been a celebration dinner was for family, though Dima and Kolya were absent at Officer Training. Tasha had gone home after Papa fell asleep in his chair, relaxed and replete. Ola wandered into the communal yard, where Sasha was enjoying the breeze. She had brought him a cup of coffee. In one gulp the liquid was gone and the dregs handed to her for a reading.

The grounds told her nothing she had not already surmised, the young man was troubled. She stared at the dark sludge and asked "Who is this man from your past robbing you of your sleep and stealing the joy in your heart?" Ola knew someone from his past had been in contact, someone who cast a long shadow. Repercussions from past horrors, affecting him where he was safe, though he was hiding it well. The confrontation with his past abusers had not gone as hoped, something was off. Something had happened in California.

"I have spoken to father about him, before. When I was fourteen, I crossed paths with a man who really knew my birth father. This person was Russian born. It's very complicated. He was kind of stalking me in LA and I confronted him. It has thrown a spanner in my carefully laid out life plan and I wish he had stayed in the past, just in my nightmares." Alex sighed and looked up as the darkening sky revealed the first stars. "Yasha was a killer for hire, after he lost everything including his identity at fourteen." Another pause, "So, he killed Ian. He should have killed me, but murdered Herod Sayle instead. Hence the nightmares. The complicated bit was that John Rider was his mentor and taught him to kill, to main and to torture; like my birth father, he was very good at it. In another life, if you had not protected me, I might have ended up like him. Just following orders and lost. Not that he does that anymore, I guess I was the catalyst for him to get out." Alex wipes the moisture from his face with his hands.

It had not been the fleeting crossing of paths as Ola assumed. They had talked. He had been civil to Tulip Jones, but he had been far more open and kind to the man who had been Cossack and he had could empathise with their similarities and how close he had come to following that man's path. They were not enemies, not family, but not strangers either. Connected and separated by fate, that was the bond between them. Alex knew that Yassen had just been checking up on him and would probably continue to aware of everything in his life even if they never met again

...

Life in America had changed Cossack. He impersonated the average American Joe and their habits well. No one in Credence would have guessed a contract killer lived, worked and prayed amongst them. His hair was longer, now more white than blond. He had grown a beard, which he kept neatly trimmed. A plastic surgeon had sculpted his nose and chin with the cover of facial injuries following a car crash as a teenager. He also had an orthodontist's perfect smile after opting for veneers as well. Jan Koroliev had owned a Auto repair and maintenance shop and was a skilled mechanic. He was a part time fireman in a small town in Oregon adapting to his cover arranged by the CIA. The legend was as the orphaned child of Russian immigrants, his identity borrowed from a dead hobo. He attended poker nights with fellow fire crew, has been on dates, he had made friends. In the past year he had dated and was engaged to a divorced nurse and by next spring he would be the stepfather to her three teenager children. He worked hard to fit in. Careful to appear average, even when hunting with his friends.

He had a computer with a hidden folder for all press reports and gossip on the young son of Boris Kiriyenko. The ex assassin had kept abreast of hacking and had an alert on Aleksandr Kiriyenko, who was flying into LA next week. Common sense was to forget everything about his past. Little Alex had escaped his master's, been adopted, gone back to finish school and had left the world of death and lies behind. Yet, Yassen knew just how ruthless Boris and his fellows in the Politburo were. Had Hunter's son been brainwashed, was he now an asset of Russian State Security? Was he happy? Had his time as a spy damaged him? Cossack's funds were still there hidden as a backup. He had days of vacation time accrued as he had only planned to take time off for his marriage and honeymoon at a Golf Resort in Florida.

His one momento from his life before was a single photo of Hunter. He could pass Alex off as a cousin and check he was fine and come back here. He emailed Lou, a mechanic who worked for him part time, who would cover for him, as he took a few days off to go hiking. Luckily his contact with the CIA was in Portland on the other side of the state. He was not due to check in for another ten days. He had a car and change of identity to use for his trip south. He bet Alex would be visiting Cassian James.

...

Yassen had undertaken many stakeouts. He was just another tourist and driving around LA. Young Alex meeting with not just one school friend but five. James Sprintz and Hugo Vries had arrived on the same flight. Cassian James lived in LA but Joe Canterbury, Tom McMorin and Paul Roscoe were also visiting. The only alumni from Point Blanc missing was Dimitry Ivanov, who was at officer training for Russian State Security. Cassian, Paul and Tom met the arrivals at the airport, Joe Canterbury arriving first and in uniform from Hawaii, then they all waited for the flight from London. The group acting protective of their hero and the youngest.

The limo was followed to a house in Topanga Canyon, with three staff and basic security. Yassen did his own perimeter check and found a decent lookout point and set up camp. His car parked just off a popular hiking trail.

...

At three AM everyone was asleep, except Alex. It was not jet lag keeping him awake. He had noticed the shadow in the airport and the car following them off the freeway and up to their designation. He pulled loose sweats and his running shoes at dawn and to run along the canyon. Joe stepped of his room to join Alex. "I noticed the SUV tailing us, yesterday. Let's see if it's parked close by. It might be a PI, my dad is a dick about getting me followed. Makes restraining orders useless when your creepy parents pay someone to do their stalking. Hence this is the first time I've been off base in a while."

Alex doubted General Canterbury could afford the guy he recognised at the airport. Then again, Cossack might just be keeping tabs not working. "Heads up, if it's who I think it is, he's not a guy you confront. I think he just wants to talk."

"Who is it? Another agency guy?"

"No. Freelance, though probably retired. Knew my birth father. Told me to get out of the game. He will be happy when I reassure him I'm completely burned. Though I'm not surprised he knows who I am now. If we find him, you stay back. If it looks dodgy, get help. I don't think it will. Yassen was the only guy I crossed paths with when with MI6 who wanted me to have a childhood."

Joe nodded, in business mode and letting the ex spy take the lead, "I have your six, Sasha."

The car was easy to spot as it was too early for tourists or day trippers. The pair ran along the trail for 500m, Alex knew the house was just over the ridge. Hand signals were used, as Joe took cover to act as backup. Alex then started to scout out lookout points and any campers. He also knew, that from this vantage point, the pair leaving on their run will have been observed. Careful to be silent and fully aware of his surroundings, he jumped out of skin when a soft whisper in his right ear "Good Morning, Sasha."


	29. Chapter 29

Yassen had driven less than 20 miles before he pulled over at a motel. His mindset similar to a successful contract and continued high during the escape and evade back to a safe house. This was just a room, he was just a tourist. The guest showered and lay on the bed, the TV on to provide white noise as he mused over Alex's survival story, one as horrific as his own escape from servitude after the horror of Estrov. The retired killer had a lot to think about. He was not surprised by his anger, he no longer had to suppress his reactions. Though, this was not at John's son.

This young man had been stoic and calm, even so Little Alex had played his cards close to his chest in the past, even when faced with death. Meeting again, his friend's son had been open and truthful, which had meant to be reassurance and yet the young man had laid bare his serious issues over self reliance, near total lack of self preservation and continued need for therapy. Yassen had been so wrong in 2001, making assumptions about blind patriotism and revenge for his uncle's murder, not the brutality that MI6 had blackmailed a child into operations, then left him to rot in Russia without any proof of his identity only an American legend to fall back on. John's brother had been neglectful and his employer's had acted like Sharkovsky. Alex had saved Russia and the same bastard's in power who had erased Yassen's last had ensured a teenager's future. Probably just to embarrass the spooks in London and Washington.

Had he still been in his original line of work, he would could have taken a sabbatical to fulfil his own contracts and erase marked for his special skills in prolonged agony. Alan Blunt and the Italian kidnapper, both guilty of nearly killing John's son. He could no longer travel openly, even after three years his survival would incur the wrath of his former paymasters. His revenge could not be hands on and he had no desire to pay another to do this dirty work. The price of survival was the loss their past selves, two wolves pretending to be sheep.

The one compromise, was that Alex had promised to start a blog, so Yassen could stalk him from his own exile without jeopardising his retirement.

...

Joe watched the creepy guy from Alex's past, but he could read the relaxed body language as non-threatening. Like Alex surmised the guy just wanted to talk. Luckily they were speaking in English, his Russian was barely above yes, no, hello, goodbye, please and thank you.

"You look well, Sasha. I am glad you found a home in Moscow. Boris did a fine job raising his daughters and you."

"Don't forget Dimitry as well. Ola and Tasha are fine women, they have been wonderful for both of us and accepted the new arrivals with open hearts. It was difficult at times. I'm still impulsive and have little sense of self preservation. I still see a shrink regularly. For the last three years I took dance classes with the president's daughter, which was surreal. How are you Yasha? Are you working for Byrne now?"

"No, I am under CIA protection, which means I live and work in a small town." Yassen smiled looking straight at the hidden eavesdropper. "My tent is close by. You and Mr Canterbury can join me for breakfast."

After MREs and strong black coffee, Joe excused himself to watch at a respectful distance as the pair spoke in Russian about Alex's past connections to this operative.

Alex watched the sun glinting off the pool in the garden below. His coffee gone cold, after explaining about Point Blanc, Iraq, the Triads, Sarov and his adoption. "I will never work for any branch of the security services in Russia, America or Britain, Yasha. I got a presidential military service exemption before I left Moscow. I've been seeing an SIS approved shrink in London. Terry's a darling. He showed me his letter to M, Tulip's boss at HQ. Lots of long words describing the damage done by Blunt. You know, personality disorder and PTSD. I don't connect with people, nearly impossible to trust anyone. So, Jamie and me are a thing. Moving in together when we get back to London. He's starting uni". With a sigh, the ex spy looked in the eyes of his former enemy. The lines between good and bad blurred by the fact this man had sparred his life and actually wanted him to be a kid, forget the great game and go back to school. "You have your chance of good retirement. Don't fuck it up for me or any noble ideas about revenge. Water under the bridge, now. The best revenge is to be happy and live a long life with no excitement. My friend Sabina has a blog. I followed her when I was in Moscow. If I start a blog, you can keep up to date with all things Alex. I'll let you know when I'm stateside, if you want to talk again. Go home. Actual stalking is not cool."

...

The early risers arrived back at 10, to find none of the others awake. After their run back in silence, Joe made a b-line to the refrigerator, and pulled out a beer, then put on the coffee machine. "A fucking contract killer is your fairy godmother, spy boy! Holy Fucking shit! Someone like him killed Paul's and Dimitry's Dads."

Alex smiled, cold and hard, "When I first confronted him, I blurted out that he killed Ian. He just replied that he had killed lots of people. Yet, he would not kill me. He's off home now. Are you going to tell the others?"

Crushing the can after his thirst was quenched, Joe shrugged. "If I get hold of a spare hundred grand sometime, I might need him to ice my useless parents. No, I won't grass about your shadow."

"When's your birthday again?" Alex asked, grinning. "We could all chip in, though I bet Tom would add his mom onto the useless parents list. Anyway, Cossack is playing house now, but I bet he'd recommend a guy willing to do a double discount."

...

Jamie glad to be back in London, the apartment was ready to move into. They had both enjoyed their holiday to see Joe, Tom, Cassian, Paul and Hugo. The two bedroom apartment in Clerkenwell would be their first home together as a couple. The chosen home a compromise with Dieter, as it had 24hour reception and adequate security setup with the added bonus well as shared pool and gym. The son of a billionaire had also knew his father had bought the other apartment on the same floor of this newly renovated warehouse, for added protection 24/7 to dissuade any opportunistic kidnap attempts.

The place already furnished and decorated, as Sasha had employed an interior designer to ensure their home was perfect. His belongings had arrived from Germany, so his afternoon would be spent packing. Alex had already left the hotel, taking his packed bags with him. His love's morning sorted with a dance class, university interview and session with his psychiatrist. Jamie's schedule was not as gruelling, but likely to be a disaster; in an hour he had a brunch with his mother.

...

Mike Denny has done twenty years with the Royal Military Police and he thought he'd seen everything and had a good nose for bullshit. The file he'd compiled on one Aleksandr 'Sasha' Kiriyenko, formerly known as Alexander Gardiner, contained all relevant personal and financial details. The family history was the problem, no substance prior to his adoption in 2001.

The main fact was this kid was the sole beneficiary of Alexei Sarov's Estate, a trust currently managed by two billionaires, Dieter Sprintz and Rudi Vries. The connection to them was the fact they also managed the estate of his mark's foster brother, Dimitry Ivanov, former alumni of a dodgy school in France with their sons. Those kids were still friends. Substantial holdings had grown into a sizeable trust, half in belt and braces long term securities of property, gold and diamonds by Vries and half invested with Dieter's expert skill of following the money. A minefield investments of global proportions, he had barely touched.

Denny looked at the photos of Sarov and his first born, Vladimir. Sasha looked like he was biologically related, which would explain the legacy. The problem was the Gardiner's had no adoption paperwork filed for this kid, but ma and pa had no real background either. They were either spooks, criminals, or in witness protection. He had a copy of Sasha's birth certification with no biological parents listed, passport application at fourteen with the non-person parents for a trip to Cuba. The short statement from the Cuban authorities regarding the Gardiner's disappearance stating 'diving accident' with no comment from the US State Department. The killer coincidences were Kiriyenko senior had been in Cuba that July as well, just before his stepping down due to ill health, the kid there as well before turning up in Murmansk and Sarov's 'suicide'.

Ms. McCudden wanted background not conjecture based on hunches. He typed up what was relevant and knew if he dug any deeper either the Russians, Cubans or Americans would be after him.

As he typed up the basics, he mused over the facts, surmising the Sarov suicide covered up something dodgy. The kid had obviously been kidnapped, his bet was the Gardiner's had been working for Sarov. Kiriyenko, ever the mediator had chosen being a decent friend to protect the kid, when it all went down. A lifetime of writing reports, you kept to the facts and kept it simple. It wasn't like his client was going to pay for an in depth investigation. Rumour was Blythe McCudden spent every penny she earned on her high maintenance lifestyle. She should have stuck with Sprintz and not run off with that two timing scumbag director.

...

Jamie had always assumed he took after his mother's dramatic temperament, but at this moment he mirrored his dad's poker face and cool under pressure attitude as Blythe continued to dig her own grave as she went on and on about how dodgy Sasha's background was, when it was all CIA bullshit not the actual cold hard reality that his boyfriend was raised to be a liar, thief and chameleon right here in London.

He pushed the cold remains of food about on his plate and went through the actual crux, "so, let me get this straight, you hired someone to dig the dirt on the guy I love. Are you disappointed that he's independently wealthy so not after my dad's money? You do not give a shit that I'm happy. Picking fault with the fact he sees a shrink regularly. So do I, mother. You complain that he had a less than ideal upbringing. So, what? His dad is great. I know Boris. He was tough, but supportive. You complain he's only seventeen, when he's way more mature than you. He's not high school drop out either. He got five straight As for his A levels and has got a last minute place to read politics and international relations at Birkbeck, his dad is really happy he's decided on an academic path. You don't know Sasha and guess what, you don't know me either." The napkin was thrown on his plate as he stood up. "Funny you say you supporting your openly gay son, yet you state the guy I've been head over heels in love with for three years is not good enough. Do I need to bring up your dating track record? You might date losers, addicts, asshats and users. I had the ultimate shovel talk from Sasha's brother. For the record, do not approach Sasha, do not threaten him or try to break us up. In fact, go back to not giving a shit about me, because I do not give a shit about what you think.


	30. Chapter 30

Reprimanded and reassigned to data handling, the MI5 operative had failed the assessment for promotion to field officer, which had not been a simple contact report but a test to remain unnoticed. He bided his time before satisfying his curiosity regarding the connection between Tulip Jones and Aleksandr Kiriyenko. Lancaster was not surprised to find the security clearance for the teenager's file was level 1. Taking a side track, he looked up James Sprintz and skimmed the file about the SAS rescue at Point Blanc. All details of MI6's undercover operative at the school were redacted. The names of the other pupils were on file, all whose parents were either in the Forbes 100 or former Time Magazine Person of the Year.

Seven pupils named, yet eight clones taken prisoner; five institutionalised in a France, one in US federal penitentiary serving a 99 year sentence, one died trying to escape a Russian gulag and one of the Grief doppelgängers was held at the SIS Holding Facility in Gibraltar. Why when none of the pupils were British?

Closing the files and returning to his assigned work, the Desk Jockey pondered the fanciful rumours regarding Blunt's resignation in 2001 about some kid used in operations. The other pupils were now 18. Kiriyenko did not fit the profile, being barely seventeen. Yet, his foster brother was Ivanov's son. Coincidence? Was the teen agent now a sleeper agent in Moscow? Then why was he cozying up to Sprintz junior and studying in London. Nothing added up. He had read the detailed report in the Sprintz file from an ex-SAS operative, hired by Blythe McCudden to dig the dirt on her kid's boyfriend. The kid seemed to have appeared as a thirteen year old in June 2001, with a seemingly genuine US birth certificate but no other traceable records. The detective had done a first rate background check, but not drawn attention to the anomalies.

Who the hell was Aleksandr Kiriyenko, AKA Alexander Gardiner? If he ever made Level one clearance he'd find out.

...

The staff kitchen had been designated the safe area in the school, as this room was untouched by the carnage, but it still stank from the aviation fuel fire from the helicopter crash site still smouldering on the mountain. In the dim glow of the emergency light, eight fourteen year old boys were eating in silence. A guard was positioned at end of the hall, keeping an eye on comings and goings, since the initial assessment had categorised the freed prisoners as fit and well and therefore a low priority. The SAS were full occupied looking after their own, as Wolf and three others were being treated by the medics and the other team members were busy mopping up until Mrs Jones and various parents arrived.

Alex grimaced at the MRE supplied, fixating on the phrase in his head. Mopping up, army slang for the task in hand, clearing the school room by room before actually mopping up the blood and gore, then dealing with the prisoners and the kids in the kitchen. Cub, not double O nothing, had been assigned babysitting duty. In this moment of calm, Alex pondered Wolf and the questions he had not asked during this operation of the kid forced into black ops. No questioning his age, guardians or legalities, the SAS only following orders.

The real connection with others who understood his precarious position been during the forty minutes with these relative strangers, as survival had morphed them into blood brothers. Oaths of loyalty sworn as directed by Paul Roscoe with real intent behind this school making them real family unlike the adults who forced this upon them. During the oaths each of them had added personal details, unknown to Grief's clones or their parents, as a backup in case any of their doppelgänger's escaped and tried to complete Project Gemini.

This discussion not overheard, as Jamie had tuned in the cook's radio to a local rock station, to mask their conversation from the soldiers and spooks.

In a soft whisper, Alex disturbed the diners, to fess up about his uncle lipping to him about being a spy and the coverup about Ian's death as a traffic accident, not execution and the how he had followed his suspicions and then the threats and blackmail from Blunt to be their whipping boy.

Paul and Dimitry had already told the others their foreknowledge of their father's murder, from the gloating of foul Miss Stomachbag and their clones acceptance as heirs. Each of of them aware of their bleak future, back with the parent's who ultimately desired the perfect clones, rather than their real sons.

The uneaten meal was cold and Alex sighed, "So, BFFs there is a major catch in being teen spy extraordinaire. My contacts are monitored by MI6. Blunt threatened my home and Jack to get me to play along, QED they own me. Which means if you contact me, he gains ammunition to use against me. I can keep you guys in the loop, but it'll be a one way information flow until I'm no longer an asset. The fact is death in service or burned and left high and dry with no back up is more likely than a return to school and a normal life anytime soon. Anyway, when I loose my angelic boyish charms I'll be useless to Blunt and be cast aside as yesterday's news. So, I bet my entire savings account that Spying, either good or bad, will be a thing of the past by my fifteenth birthday. So, you guys are welcome to the grand sum of £427.12."

Jamie snorted. "I raise the stakes to all my liquid capital, which is around three thousand euros and I bet this is your last rodeo as a spy, cause you broke cover and told us all you were a spook."

Not one bet fir a lifetime as a spy for Alex, empathising with his desire for hanging out with friends, football and no more lying. Each added sums of savings or prized possessions into the pot for their saviour. Each agreeing with Jamie, because a spy in deep cover breaking his legend, was a big no no in the high stakes game of international espionage.

...

Paul Roscoe snorted awake, as the jet pitched with the suburbs visible through the window, and the vivid dream of the school from hell a stark contrast to the holding pattern around Heathrow. Flying commercial business class not in a company jet, Paul was looking forward to freedom away from his dad's legacy and his relatives in New York. He pondered that bet and the postcards sent from an airforce base in Afghanistan which had stated he was 'a friend - wild camping with the Mujahideen' and then another from Miami stating 'a friend - going on vacation to Cuba with mom and dad from the farm' and finally from Russia glibly stating 'RIP rider, lester, friend, cub and double O nothing. New family, hasta la vista spookiness.'

Paul has no interest in stepping into his father's shoes. The Roscoe global empire was even more successful since his father's murder. Technically a teenage billionaire, but he inherited his father's holdings on his 25th birthday. His finances at the moment were through a trust, generous but conditional, so moving 3000 miles to study was enough distance for him to breath easier and feel less like a dancing monkey with every move and failure under scrutiny. He planned a doctorate after his undergraduate degree, to comply with the onerous educational clauses and he did not plan on dating, never mind marriage, to have the trustees sticking their noses in there. He understood Jamie and Alex pairing up, though he did not have the comfort of finding his own gender attractive, because dating one of the few people on the planet you trusted was the easiest option.

His father's apartment in Kensington was his to use and he would look up his dad's PA to learn everything he needed to know about business that was not taught on his degree course and to find out all the dirt his dad had accumulated on his rivals and the board members. The survivor of Grief's plot just had to look at Alex to know he was lucky. His rescuer was complex and warped by the abuse he suffered to empathise that a psychopath like Gregorovich was a friend and looking out for his best interests. Jamie might have bitten off more than he could chew falling for the ex-spy. Yet each of them closer than brothers, each reinforcing positive relationships with the damaged hero as a support group helping each other. Each teenager still dealing with imposter syndrome and deep seated abandonment issues, and Alex had the additional burden of a personality disorder and deep ingrained psychopathic tendencies taught by his uncle. Maybe he was overthinking this move, though it was an easy one to explain. In Europe, he could drink and party legally with real friends. Unlike Cassian, Joe and Tom, he had made no friends after returning from France. They had the will and freedom to turn their backs on their parents, to start anew. Paul needed to bide his time until he was rich enough to plan the destruction of his enemies.


	31. Chapter 31

Alex looked around John Lewis, at the variety of options for his list of purchases including a new phone, a camera capable of basic videos, a decent laptop and basic editing software aimed at idiots. Blogging was easy for Joe, Cass and Paul, but he'd lived in a tech free bubble in Moscow, apart from a calculator for math. He stood by the cameras with no idea what to buy. He looked at his journal of notes about making his life public property with a weekly updated video diary of life as a student in London.

The start of a panic attack hit Alex hard and fast and the nauseous, sweating teenager made a b-line to the restroom with necessary speed to puke up his lunch. Sitting in the stall, rubbing his eyes in an attempt to forestall crying. Normal teenager's sought fame and fortune, he had inherited millions from that bastard Sarov and made a stupid promise to his uncle's murderer and empathised with that killer like they were some sort of fucked up family. Now he wanted to run from both. Feeling trapped was not a new trigger, it was the norm since Stormbreaker. If only he could go back to be fourteen and just accept Ian died in a car crash. Only that foolish wish was the antithesis of everything Alex Rider had been taught during childhood games disguising the spy-craft training. He had to strategise, he would play the fool and act inept and inane, because if he did that well enough and no one would want to follow the blog of a boring privileged asshat. He then laughed thinking of a perfect role model in the vacuous Fiona Friend. The panic ebbed and he felt stupid for this emotional storm in a teacup. All Ian's fault for bringing him up to assimilate with his surroundings, when fitting in meant being part of the wallpaper. No more stupid panicking and overthinking the here and now. His trust meant a generous disposable income, ergo his shopping would be done the easy way, by letting an assistant do the choosing for him, then go home to plan the housewarming party.

...

Fiona Friend looked at the embossed invitation to some party in Cleckenwell of all places. RSVP Jamie Sprintz and Sasha Kiriyenko. Her father had dealings with Dieter Sprintz, he described the financier as a bore and that billionaire's ex-wife was a complete bitch. The son of the Russian President was a more interesting prospect, but Fi would pay good money not to go to any party attended Jamie's infamous mother, Blythe McCudden. The invitation was binned. The blunt truth was she would unlikely to attend any housewarming not in her stomping ground of Chelsea, Knightsbridge or Kensington. This Jamie Sprintz must be slumming it to appear one of the lads, all football and lager living out east. How, plebeian in the extreme.

...

Paul stood in the kitchen, sipping a beer and watching Sasha dance with the hottest girl in the room, Ms. Sabrina Pleasure. Tall, willowy and classically elegant, she was a cut above the four models who had arrived with Cass. After midnight and only the die hard friends were still here. The Californian was holding court with Hugo and Jamie. The neighbours had been and gone. The music low enough at this late hour not to piss anyone off. The apartment was very modest, but Jamie took after his dad, keeping things domestic simple. This would probably be the only time in their lives they could relax, try and fit in, despite the poisoned legacy of power and the inevitable shadow of jealousy, envy and betrayal that had started with Project Gemini in 2001. The track changed and Sabina continued to dance with Hans, one of the security detail living across the hall.

Alex grabbed a coke and stood people watching with Paul. "We got our course books yesterday. I read Jamie's one on criminal psychology for fun last night, one of the bonuses of insomnia. Nice chapter of personality disorders and another on trauma, abandonment and grief affecting kids in a less than ideal way. I give it two months max before the Rose-tinted spectacles besotted lover-boy is wearing fall off and he realises some other guy is actually a whole lot less nuts and falls for normal, not crazy like a bag full of cats like me. Thee and me actually have more in common. Actually, your dad was a hell of a lot more parent material than Darling Ian, with his fucked up spy training program. Everything about us and Dimitry is fucked up beyond all recognition. It's weird, but I like Dieter and Rudi. Those old farts are kinda cool in their own fucked up way. Jamie and Hugo are close to normal, unlike us. When this love affair ends, can I crash at your place?"

Paul agreed with Alex, nodding along with his practical outlook, understanding they were both outsiders. "Mi Casa su casa, my friend. Need a job, a home, a bail out or a tropical island to escape to, I can be your fairy god brother. So, it's when this relationship takes a nose dive, not if, then."

Alex smiled, "I'm well aware I have a fluid personality, I'm not sure anything is the real deal or just me fitting in like Ian drummed into me. That's what makes my sessions with Trevor so stimulating. He loves the fact l'm slippery and twisted. It's no secret that the long term backup plan cooked up by Dieter, Rudi and dad is a nice discrete clinic in Switzerland in case I loose the plot at some point. You just promised me an alternative, one that I think I prefer. If a complete bastard psycho killer like Gregorovich can get out of the Great Game and play normal, I'm sure I can manage it. Like him, I think I need to hold all the cards though and be the one managing any exit strategy." Alex was as close to love as he could manage, but close and the actual full emotional experience were a different as the ocean floor to the peaks of the Himalayas. "Jamie's not stupid and he will meet someone and realise I might be a great lay but I have the emotional depth of the sociopath I was trained to be".

With a furrowed brow, the young billionaire pondered his own sociopathic tendencies warping his need for control. He mused his own survival 101: take the stairs, vary your routine, never be on time, trust was the highest commodity worth more than gold and everyone had a price, vice or breaking point. He decided to take in some psychology lectures to be self aware and to hone his skills in observing people. Holding aloft his beer bottle "to six to seven years of being invisible students. I think doctorates are in order for you and me. You a future diplomat and my game plan on a hostile take back of Roscoe Electronics, Computers, Communications and Space Industries. Pity your one time sis Fiona didn't show. She is the exact type of bitch my grandmother wants me to date."

...

Yassen rewatched the first vlog. Little Alex playing the tourist around the Tower of London. The teenager talking in a fast mix of Russian and English. The web design, editing and pace was very professional; even if the content was bland and non confrontational. In the text, Edward Pleasure's daughter was credited as creative consultant. Alex had reconnected with his past self, settling in back in London, not longer in exile. The fabricated American pondered his own lack of homesickness. The past was inconsequential to him, he was first and foremost a survivor. The reason he loved John's son was the fact the teenager was a survivor as well.


End file.
